FURY 


By  EDMUND  GOULDING 


A.  L.  BURT  COMPANY 

Publishers  New  York 

Published  by  arrangement  with  Dodd,  Mead   &  Company 
Printed  in  U.  S.  A. 


COPYRIGHT    IWf, 
BT  DODD.  MEAD  AND  COMPANY,  In 


M  TWI  w.  §.  *..  «r 


AFFECTIONATELY  DEDICATED  TO  MY  MOTHER 
AND   BABY   SISTER 


2084195 


FURY 


CHAPTER  I 


HIDING    in    black    nights  .  .  .  alone  .  .  . 
emerging  with  the  sun  .  .  .  year  in  and 
out  .  .  .  The  Lady  Spray  rode  on,  con- 
suming billowy  distance  with  a  pride  bred  of  her 
courage,  sex  and  custom. 

Looney  Luke  well  said  of  her: 

"Stormy  night,  or  sunny  day, 

They're  all  the  same  to  The  Lady  Spray." 

Luke  loved  this  ship;  he  loved  the  sea;  and  all 
men — and  God. 

He  could  not  even  hate  his  captain,  Dog  Leyton. 
He'd  said  so  once,  and  the  crew  had  laughed.  And 
then  Dog  Leyton  had  heard,  and  he  laughed,  too. 

And  is  it  any  matter  of  wonder  that  the  sea  roars 
with  seething  laughter  as  she  rolls  up  on  the  sands 
of  land  to  see  you  and  me? 

She  laughs;  and  with  a  swift  movement  of  her 
body  sweeps  that  fat  woman's  fat  husband  down, 
under  and  away.  Then,  as  we  stand  horrified,  she 
laughs  back  at  us:  "Come  in,  little  man,  God's 
greatest  creation!" 

3 


4  FUKY 

Perhaps  we  do  not  understand  her  roaring  voice ; 
and  so  we  strut  pleasurably  back  to  land  and  life; 
to  chat,  to  breed,  to  cry  and  laugh,  waking  and 
sleeping,  working  and  playing,  living  and  dying, 
in  mansions  and  mines,  developing  the  human  race 
to  the  glory  of  God.  Is  it  any  wonder  that  the 
sea  laughs  as  she  rolls  up  on  the  humans'  land? 

Some  of  us,  perhaps,  have  heard  the  sea  calling 
within  us — and  have  thrilled,  looking  up  into 
truth;  and  a  furious  love  of  life  has  possessed  us 
.  .  .  and  we  have  laughed  with  the  sea. 

But  then  ...  we  have  forgotten  again,  and 
leaned  away  from  truth. 

So,  through  time,  Man's  laugh  is  dying  .  .  .  and 
only  the  sea  can  be  heard,  far  down  along,  curl- 
ing upon  the  winding  shore  .  .  .  seemingly  eter- 
nal. 

Thus  Dog  Leyton's  laugh  had  died.  And  Dog 
Leyton  was  a  captain  of  the  sea.  The  Lady  Spray 
was  his  ship — had  been  for  thirty  years;  and  she 
was  still  as  trim  a  windjamming  girlie  as  you'd 
want  to  find.  She  got  a  bit  saucy  sometimes,  but 
ain't  that  the  way  with  all  women? 

Dog  had  been  caught  up  in  one  of  those  cyclones 
of  passion,  broken  vows  and  lies,  which  blow  only 
on  land;  and  he'd  taken  his  brooding  out  to  sea, 
and  she,  womanlike,  had  jibed,  and  laughed,  and 
taunted,  until  .  .  . 

But  then  he'd  never  inspired  that  tender  solace 
which  only  the  sea  can  give.  On  the  contrary,  he'd 
never  understood  the  sea.  He'd  never  known  the 


FURY  5 

glorious  line  of  her  form,  her  endless  laughter,  her 
passion,  her  tempestuous  moods  of  play,  or  her 
moon-kissed  sleep.  Bah !  To  him  she  was  the  soup 
— always  the  soup!  Damn  the  wash!  Damn  the 
wind !  Damn  the  clouds !  Damn  the  endless  miles 
of  green  distance!  .  .  .  Damn  God! 

And  the  damn  God,  with  grim  humor,  had  amus- 
edly dabbed  on  his  timeless  palette,  and  detailed 
Dog  Leyton's  hating  face,  while  the  sea  swept  her 
swishing  skirts  by  and  smiled  serenely  up  into  that 
face, — the  face  that  hated  her,  the  face  with  streaks 
and  hollows  of  mental  pain,  traced  ruthlessly 
under  the  seafarer's  tan. 

The  mouth,  that  seemed  never  to  have  smiled,  was 
a  thin  line.  The  brows  might  never  have  been 
raised — they  seemed  to  be  growing  down.  He 
seemed  to  have  been  in  need,  by  his  outward  ap- 
pearance, of  a  physical  and  mental  outlet  for  some- 
thing smoldering  within  him. 

Four  obsessions  were  his :  a  ship,  his  son,  a  fight 
and  his  rum.  An  ideal  master,  hard,  cruel  and 
quarrelsome,  but  understood  by  his  crew;  and  is 
not  understanding  the  basis  of  system?  And  does 
not  system  mean  a  good  ship?  And  The  Lady 
Spray  was  certainly  that. 

The  sea's  a  man's  life  anyway,  whatever  you  say. 
It  takes  a  man  to  understand  her  moods  and  love 
her  and  ride  her!  She  is  startling  in  her  moods; 
her  smile,  when  she  wakes  in  the  morning — there's 
nothing  like  it  in  the  universe;  and  her  rage — God 
help  you,  if  she  is  against  you !  She's  attuned  to 


6  FURY 

God,  and  if  you  love  her  and  your  life  is  with  her 
and  you're  as  true  and  as  straight  as  she  is,  she'll 
introduce  you  to  him  direct  as  a  friend,  as  a 
master,  and  you  will  need  no  church. 

And  through  the  sea  you  learn  to  know  yourself 
and  all  men.  In  the  boundless  mirror  of  her  shin- 
ing face  you  get  a  clearer  vision  of  yourself,  and 
of  the  things  that  happen  out  of  the  longings  and 
storms  and  passions,  and  loves  and  hates  and  sins 
of  men.  And  she  makes  the  drama  of  it  all  play 
before  your  eyes  and  you're  never  lonely.  No, 
you're  never  lonely,  if  you  play  square  with  the 
sea,  and  she  likes  you  well  enough  to  introduce 
you  to  her  Captain — God.  .  .  . 

The  sea  had  always  loved  Boy — loved  him  from 
that  memorable  night.  The  wind  had  teased  her 
all  day  and  kept  her  awake  all  the  night  before. 
She  was  letting  her  pent-up  temper  go,  and  the 
rain  and  the  wind  were  answering  her  back.  The 
Lady  Spray  was  put  to  it  to  keep  her  nose  out  of 
trouble. 

The  woman  aboard  was  Mrs.  Leyton,  Dog's  wife 
and  as  good  a  seawoman  as  you  would  want  to 
find  anywhere — poor  girl — 

Dog  Leyton  was  himself  born  on  the  sea  and  he 
wanted  his  child  to  start  the  same  way.  So  that's 
how  she  happened  to  ship.  The  crew  took  kindly 
to  her  and — well,  that  night  there  wasn't  a  man 
aboard  who  didn't  mumble  something  or  do  some- 
thing unusual,  such  as  men  do  when  they're  sight- 
ing death — even  when  it's  well  to  port.  And  Mrs. 


FURY  7 

Ley  ton, — she  just  sat  and  trembled,  white-lipped 
and  still-eyed. 

A  gale  has  always  been  a  good  excuse  for  Dog 
to  take  a  couple  more  than  usual.  Damp  affected 
his  rheumatism;  and  it  had  often  been  said  that 
The  Lady  Spray  would  have  kissed  Davy  Jones 
long  before  but  for  Dog's  uncanny  sea  wit  and  the 
ferocious  fighting  hate  of  opposition  with  which  a 
couple  of  extra  rums  always  endowed  him. 

When  he  saw  his  wife  that  night,  as  he  came  in 
dripping,  saw  her  sitting  there  still  and  white,  he 
called  her  "yellow,"  and  accused  her  of  transfer- 
ring her  cowardice  to  the  child  that  was  to  come. 

But  she  knew  her  man.  She  stood  up  and 
smiled.  She  knew  her  man,  drunk  or  sober.  She 
walked  out  on  top,  the  rain  beating  down  on  her 
breast. 

"Who's  a  bloody  coward?"  she  screamed.  "You 
want  a  kid  like  yourself.  All  right;  we'll  make  a 
bullet-head  out  of  him  like  his — " 

Before  she  could  finish  The  Lady  Spray,  over- 
hearing, pitched  her  down,  head  first,  into  the 
scuppers. 

It  was  Morgan,  the  young  first  mate,  who  picked 
her  up  and  carried  her  back;  it  was  Morgan,  the 
first  mate,  who  looked  Dog  Leyton  in  the  eye  in  a 
way  that  the  skipper  never  forgot;  it  was  Morgan 
who  took  her  burning  hand,  and  whispered  gruff 
comfort  in  her  ear — with  a  voice  that  carried  in  it 
something  that  made  her  open  her  eyes  suddenly, 
almost  forgetting  her  pain. 


8  FUEY 

Then  Mr.  Hop,  the  ship's  doctor,  entered.  .  .  . 

It  was  just  breaking  dawn  and,  like  some 
naughty  coquette  who  has  had  a  spree  the  night 
before,  the  sea  lay  back  smiling,  breathless,  wait- 
ing for  a  tropical  day  on'  which  to  doze. 

The  skipper  had  walked  all  night,  and  no  more 
drink  had  passed  his  lips.  He  was  sober,  morose 
and  ashamed — ashamed  to  face  the  woman  he 
loved ;  ashamed  in  his  soberness  to  look  at  her  pain- 
racked  face;  ashamed  to  kiss  her  and  ask  her  to 
forgive.  And  Mr.  Hop  came  to  him  as  the  first 
streak  of  light  peeped  through  the  mist. 

"It's  come,  Captain — a  boy." 

The  Captain  did  not  move.  He  stood  there, 
transfixed  and  ashamed,  as  with  the  first  ray  of 
light  upon  her  lips,  the  sea  smiled  her  welcome  to 
Boy.  Dog  was  ashamed!  And  at  that  moment 
from  the  cabin,  Morgan,  the  first  mate  emerged, 
a  queer  look  upon  his  face. 

And  when  dawn  was  full  up,  Dog  Leyton  stood 
over  his  wife,  the  woman  who  had  loved  him  until 
then;  and  he  looked  down  on  her  still,  sleeping 
form ;  and  the  face  of  Boy  looked  up  into  his  .  .  . 
and  crinkled  and  .  .  .  perhaps,  smiled  .  .  .  for- 
giving. 


CHAPTER  II 

BOY — Boy  Leyton,  second  mate  of  The  Lady 
Spray,  the  captain's  only  son — was  a  child 
of  the  sea,  weaned  upon  her  rolling  bosom. 
Her  song  had  sung  him  to  his  baby  sleep  and  her 
soft  voice  had  taught  him  the  only  prayers  he  ever 
knew.  And  had  he  not  been  fathered  by  Dog,  the 
roughest,  toughest  ever? 

He  had  lived  up  to  all  that  father's  expectations, 
in  details  of  seamanship,  diligence  and  discipline; 
but  in  his  eyes  could  be  perceived  a  vague  tender- 
ness, a  whimsical  inquiry. 

It  was  this  manifestation  of  his  character  which 
constantly  broke  the  even  course  of  his  sea-faring 
existence  by  sharp  and  cruel  conflict,  for  Dog 
Leyton  attributed  this  strain  to  the  wife,  the 
mother,  the  woman  who  after  the  boy's  birth  had 
made  life  outside  his  ship  a  closed  book  to  him, 
the  woman  he  now  hated — who  was  gone. 

It  was  Boy's  revelation  of  his  softer  quality,  his 
unspoken  hunger  for  love  and  sympathy,  his  innate 
ability  to  deal  with  brutality,  with  compassion  and 
kindliness,  which  had  created  the  smoldering  con- 
flict between  father  and  son — a,  conflict  that  fore- 
boded tragedy. 

Nor  was  Boy,  although  physically  hard  and 
brave,  understood  by  the  flotsam  crew  chosen  by 

9 


10  FUKY 

Dog  Leyton  to  man  The  Lady  Spray.  In  truth  he 
did  not  quite  understand  himself.  Violence,  vice 
and  blood  spelled  to  him  indescribable  agony.  He 
was  a  recluse  and  a  dreamer  and  yet  at  times  for 
long  periods  he  would  gaze,  as  if  wistfully,  out  to 
sea,  sublimely  oblivious  to  the  life  about  him. 

Yet  his  immediate  sense  of  humor,  the  virility 
with  which  he  attacked  his  work,  his  buoyant  and 
laughing  attitude  towards  the  crew,  proved  him 
Dog  Leyton's  son,  with  a  pride  in  who  he  was,  a 
pride  manifested  in  his  stride  as  second  mate. 
But  now  and  then,  when  in  the  very  act  of  imitat- 
ing his  father  splendidly,  he  suddenly  would  spoil 
it  all  by  a  tender  act  or  word. 

Intense  and  natural,  he  was  a  man  among 
men,  his  very  normality  automatically  high-lighted 
against  the  abnormal  hardness  of  the  captain, 
mate  and  €rew.  The  hardening  process  to  which 
Boy  had  been  subjected,  as  persistently  prescribed 
by  his  father,  had  failed.  His  physical  perfection 
was  balanced  by  a  certain  influence  of  soul,  but 
he  was  without  subtlety.  He  took  life  and  indi- 
vidual circumstances  exactly  as  he  found  them  and 
dealt  with  them  upon  natural  instincts  and  im- 
pulses. 

Therefore  Boy  was  natural,  strong,  tender  and 
brave;  and  if  one  ventured  to  criticize  his  moral 
make-up,  one  might  point  to  his  hypersensitive 
attitude  towards  his  own  tender  and  truer  side, 
which  he  had  learned  to  term  within  himself — his 
"yellow  streak." 


THE  sea  lay  back,  languid,  under  a  hot  sun. 
Her  even,  contented  breathing  swayed  The 
Lady  Spray  with  a  gentle  grace.  It  was 
like  one  woman  lending  another  her  mirror  and 
The  Lady  Spray  smiled  quietly  to  herself.  She 
felt  dressed  for  the  afternoon,  her  decks  white  and 
trim  and  her  crew  for  the  moment  too  hot  to  shout 
and  sing. 

Boy,  stretched  upon  the  deck,  face  down,  resting 
upon  his  elbows,  was  talking  quietly  to  Noah,  a 
green  and  red  parrot  in  a  very  nice  cage. 

"G'wan,  yuh  damn  fool,"  he  said  politely,  urg- 
ingly.  "D'ye  want  yer  dinner?  Do  yer?" 

A  muffled  scream  from  Noah. 

Muscles  under  a  brown  skin  rippled  as  Boy 
swung  into  a  sitting  position. 

"Say  'Minnie,  I  love  you!'  Come  on,  now! 
<Min— ' " 

Noah  turned  quickly.  A  third  had  joined  them ; 
a  twisted,  curious  thing,  a  man  with  an  abnormally 
large  forehead  and  very  blue,  transparent  eyes. 

Boy  looked  up. 

"Blimey,  Luke,  you  try  yer  'and ;  'e's  got  to  say 
it  proper  before  port." 

Luke  smiled.    "Suppose  Noah  says  *I  love  ye'  all 

day.     'I  love  ye — I  love  ye,'  and  then  you  come 

11 


12  FURY 

back  an'  say  it;  it  won't  be  such  new  music  for 
Minnie's  ears.  Wimmen's  ears  are  made  to  wait 
for  things  they  like  to  hear  ...  to  wait." 

Boy  scratched  his  head  as  the  logic  of  this  ob- 
servation hit  him  suddenly.  A  row  of  white  teeth 
bared  spontaneously. 

"Luke,  ye're  right.  Ye  arn't  'arf  a  one!  She'd 
be  'earin'  this  blinkin'  fowl  all  day  and  when  I'd 
come  back  from  trips— 

A  sudden  movement  from  Luke  interrupted  him. 
A  sheet  of  paper,  sweeping  along  the  deck  in  a 
breath  of  warm  wind,  had  been  deftly  caught. 
Luke's  blue  eyes  missed  nothing.  In  a  moment  he 
had  seen  a  written  phrase  or  two.  He  hesitated 
and  quickly  handing  the  paper  to  Boy,  moved 
away. 

With  or  about  Luke,  the  unusual  always  hap- 
pened. It  was  a  moment  before  Boy  looked  at  the 
fluttering  letter  in  his  hand.  Then  glancing  down, 
he  read,  as  it  had  been  penned  by  a  crude,  heavy 
hand: 

"Dearest  Minnie :  I  been  thinking  of  you  all  day." 

But  the  paper  was  rudely  snatched  from  him. 

Boy,  scrambling  to  his  feet,  faced  Morgan,  the 
first  mate. 

Certain  temperaments  are  in  natural  opposition, 
certain  men  are  born  to  face  each  other,  look  into 
each  other's  eyes  and  hate;  and  these  two  hated 
with  an  unspoken,  agonizing  hate ;  a  sullen,  sailors' 
hate. 


FURY  13 

Morgan,  with  his  six-feet-three  of  sinew,  his  nar- 
rowed eyes  and  lantern  jaw,  hated  Boy;  and  Boy, 
though  trembling,  feared  not  Morgan  but  his  own 
insane,  surging  desire  to  kill  this  man  who  now 
stood  with  the  paper  crushed  in  his  hand,  looking 
down  at  him,  silent  but  for  the  hiss  of  indrawn 
breath. 

Then  suddenly  another's  voice,  raucous: 

"Get  out  of  it  there,  Morgan !    I  called  yuh." 

Dog  Leyton,  red-faced,  was  yelling  from  the 
wheel. 

"Aye,  aye,  sir." 

Without  a  word  Morgan  turned  away,  the  letter 
still  crushed  in  his  hand;  and  Boy,  gazing  after 
him,  wondered. 

His  heart  was  thumping.  He  turned.  Noah 
was  a  dull  thing  now  in  the  reaction. 

Looney  Luke  watched  him  and  smiled.  He  saw 
hidden  meanings.  No  external  incident  ever 
brought  change  to  his  twisted  features.  He  was 
Looney  Luke,  the  cooky's  mate;  he  read  the  stars, 
he  told  your  fate. 

Boy  stood  beside  him  now  and  asked  a  question, 
but  Looney  Luke  did  not  answer.  His  attention 
had  been  attracted  elsewhere. 

Morgan  had  taken  the  wheel.  The  Skipper 
leaned  heavily  on  the  rail,  wiping  his  forehead. 
His  figure  sagged  as  if  physically  fatigued.  His 
head  turned  quickly. 

"Did  ye  speak,  Mr.  Morgan?" 

Morgan  did  not  answer. 


14  FURY 

The  eyes  of  the  older  man  blazed.  The  sagging 
figure  stiffened  suddenly.  A  stride  and  he  stood 
beside  Morgan,  whose  face  was  averted. 

"Were  ye  mumblin'  something  Mr.  Morgan?" 

The  other  answered  suddenly,  sullenly,  without 
turning : 

"I  remarked  it  wa'n't  my  watch." 

Here  it  was,  an  outlet,  an  excuse.  With  light- 
ning stimulus  it  functioned.  Leyton's  body  quiv- 
ered and  his  voice  thundered :  "Are  you  objecting 
Mr.  Morgan?" 

"No,  damn  ye,  I  ain't";  and  Morgan  swung 
around,  speaking  down  into  the  broad,  crimson, 
twitching  face,  thrust  up  to  him  viciously. 

Again,  one  of  those  unspeakable  moments;  a 
moment  of  hate. 

Boy  made  a  movement  forward.  Luke  laid  a 
hand  on  his  arm,  restraining  him.  Together  they 
watched. 

Leyton  lunged  suddenly.  Morgan  stepped  back. 
The  savage  impetus  of  the  blow  swung  the  Skipper 
around  against  the  wheel.  The  other  walked  for- 
ward fearlessly  sneering: 

"Ye're  Captain,  don't  forget!    Ye're— " 

A  backhander  checked  further  utterance. 

A  herculean  feat  of  mental  control  shook  Mor- 
gan's huge  frame  as  he  stood,  a  sinister  figure, 
facing  an  old  man,  who  at  that  moment  slumped, 
clutching  at  the  wheel. 

The  Lady  Spray  nervously  fluttered  in  her 
course. 


FURY  15 

Boy  with  a  cry  started  forward  and  was  again 
restrained.  He  knew  ...  he  knew ! 

Mr.  Hop  stood  beside  Dog  Leyton,  patting  his 
back  briskly. 

The  old  man  was  gasping  for  breath,  betraying 
every  symptom  of  apoplectic  distress.  Morgan 
watched  silently,  as  the  Captain,  with  an  ef- 
fort, straightened,  stood  erect,  spat  and  walked 
away. 

Mr.  Hop  and  Morgan  exchanged  quick  glances. 

"He'll  be  killin'  some  one  or  himself  in  one  of 
them  fits." 

And  Mr.  Hop,  about  to  reply,  started  suddenly. 
Morgan  looked  with  him. 

"Get  out  o'  me  sight,  ye  moon-faced  calf!" 

Together  they  watched  Boy  turn  slowly  away 
from  his  father.  He  had  followed  only  a  few  steps 
and  in  a  low  voice  asked :  "Are  you  all  right  now,. 
Father?— sir?" 

Boy  walked  to  Looney  Luke;  again  he  asked  a 
question  and  again  Looney  Luke's  face  was  turned 
away,  absorbed. 

Boy's  gaze  followed  his  to  see  something  that  had 
happened  five  times  before  in  his  fifteen  or  sixteen 
years  of  conscious  memories.  He  spoke,  clutching 
Luke's  arm. 

"He'll  make  'em  fight — the  mood  Vs  in,  'e  will ! 
Make  'em  fight!  An'  one  of  'em"  (his  voice  low- 
ered to  a  whisper) ,  "  '11  go  under.  Look !" 

It  was  true.  He  had  told  one  of  the  secrets  of 
the  sea;  a  secret  carried  in  the  heart  of  The  Lady 


16  FURY 

Spray;  his  father's  law;  something  that  justified 
vague  whispers  ashore.  Fight  it  out! 

Zeis,  the  Greek  cook  .  .  .  some  garbage  on  the 
deck  .  .  .  and  Yuka,  the  burly  Russian  blonde 
.  .  .  the  skipper  between  .  .  .  "Who  dumped 
this?"  ...  a  torrent  of  foreign  words  growing 
louder,  shriller,  as  two  sea  haters  of  seven 
voyages  full  of  smoldering  aversion,  stood  facing 
each  other.  Zeis  knew  the  Russian  lied — the  gar- 
bage wasn't  from  the  galley. 

A  whistle,  shrill,  penetrating. 

"All  hands  up!" 

"A  fight— a  fight !" 

Eyes  had  been  watching.  It  was  the  first  fight 
since  the  giant  Lascar,  Jumbo,  had  been  brained, 
two  years  ago  and  by  this  very  Zeis  .  .  .  Jumbo 
had  died  of  pneumonia  according  to  Mr.  Hop's 
log. 

And  now  Yuka! 

What  a  fight!  .  .  . 

Hoarse  shouts  and  scrambling  feet  .  .  . 

"The  old  'un's  gettin'  blood  mad  again  .  .  ." 

"Five  bob  on  Zeis!" 

"All  up!" 

And  the  white  decks  of  The  Lady  Spray  suddenly 
seemed  to  shudder. 

"A  chair  for  the  Skipper." 

Mr.  Hop  came  forward  busily,  with  a  bowl  of 
water  and  some  towels. 

"A  bigger  ring!  Give  'em  room!  Back!  Get 
back,  there!  Farther!" 


FURY  17 

"Look  at  that  bloody  man,  I  ask  yer.  He'll  eat 
'im!" 

Yuka,  bared  to  the  waist,  his  straw  mop  answer- 
ing dully  to  the  light,  smiled  at  the  speaker.  He 
pawed  the  ground  with  a  naked  horny  foot.  His 
knife  flamed  in  the  sun.  His  was  the  confidence 
of  a  giant. 

Zeis  the  Greek,  lithe,  sparse,  still,  very  still,  his 
thin  pointed  features  unmoving,  waited,  knife 
gripped  in  his  steel-like  fingers,  its  blade  under 
his  wrist,  turned  up  towards  the  elbow. 

"Silence!" 

The  Skipper  took  his  seat  and  unnaturally  stuck 
an  unlighted  pipe  in  his  mouth. 

The  sky,  blue  with  flecks  of  white,  looked  and 
whispered  to  the  dozing  sea,  but  only  Looney  Luke 
noticed  the  faint  puff  of  warm  interest  that  stirred 
The  Lady  Spray  uneasily. 

"You  two  wanted  this  an'  now  ye've  got  it,  and 
whatever's  the  outcome,  ye'll  govern  yerselves  and 
yer  tongues  accordingly.  Ye're  all  parties  to  this 
'ere  scrap.  D'ye  understand?" 

A  roar  of  hoarse  "ayes"  ...  a  rumble  of  dis- 
cordant excited  voices  .  .  .  the  rasp  of  bloody 
speculation  .  .  .  hushed  whispers  of  advice. 

"Wait!     Stop!" 

The  Skipper  rose  and,  hand  to  mouth,  shouted : 

"Boy!" 

And  Boy,  but  a  dozen  paces  away  behind  Num- 
ber 1  boat,  stiffened  suddenly.  His  eyes  sought 
Looney  Luke's  appealingly  and  met  blankness, 


18  FURY 

changing  to  a  whimsical  smile  of  cynical  encour- 
agement. 

"B-O-Y!" 

Boy  walked  forward  heavily  and  Looney  Luke 
gazed  after  him,  the  boy  he  loved  .  .  .  and  turned 
his  head  away. 

Why — why  was  Boy  a  coward?  Why  was  he 
yellow  .  .  .  this  healthy  boy — a  product  of  the 
sea  and  scared  to  see  a  scrap  and  a  good  one — 
why? 

Morgan  smiled  from  the  wheel  as  he  looked 
down  upon  the  curious  scene  before  him.  It  had 
happened  so  quickly — but  that  is  the  way  of  the 
sea.  And  now  look  at  Boy,  that  dead-faced  brat! 
The  old  'un's  makin'  him  set  on  the  deck  by  his 
chair  and  the  old  'un's  voice  b-i-t-e-s. 

Its  tremolo  of  excitement  went  up  and  kissed 
Morgan's  ears. 

"I  said  all  hands  up,  Mr.  Leyton!  Damn  ye, 
can't  yer  obey?  .  .  .  Sit  down!  .  .  .  Here!" 

Morgan  smiled  again  as  the  crew  grinned  and 
Boy,  white  faced,  took  his  place  beside  his  father. 

And  at  the  first  breathless  "Oh!"  as  two  naked 
bodies  smacked  into  action,  each  glistening,  sweat- 
ing, before  its  blow  was  struck,  Morgan  felt  him- 
self strangely  aloof. 

He  still  retained  a  spark  of  ambition.  Exactly 
what  that  ambition  was  he  didn't  know,  except,  of 
course,  that  he  wanted  to  be  master  of  The  Lady 
Spray — if  the  devil  would  only  be  kind  enough  to 
remove  the  old  man. 


FURY  19 

He  gazed  down  now  at  that  old  man,  craning 
forward  in  his  chair,  with  eyes  like  tiny  beads  of 
fire,  watching — what? 

The  Russian  was  down,  face  upon  the  deck. 
Under  each  shoulder  his  two  hands  gripped  the 
two  of  Zeis,  who  strained  and  panted  above  and 
bit  into  the  red,  crinkled  neck  beneath  a  straw 
mopped  head  that  came  back  with  force  enough 
against  his  nose  to  send  drops  of  crimson  wet  upon 
writhing  shoulders. 

And  no  one  knew  but  they  that  the  knife  of 
Zeis  pierced  an  inch  into  the  fleshy  breast  pressing 
against  the  deck,  until  it  moved  in  its  warm  socket 
restlessly,  as  the  Greek  strained  above  and  other 
crimson  evidence  streaked  from  under  the  middle 
of  the  two  sweating,  panting  forms,  who  were 
fighting — for  what? — for  what? 

Boy's  head  turned  away  as  another  conscious- 
ness shrieked  the  question  in  his  ear,  and  the  hand 
of  the  Skipper  came  automatically  down  from  the 
side  of  the  chair,  to  twist  it  roughly  until  it  faced 
again— 

Two  figures,  now  risen  for  another  rush. 

The  slap  of  their  wet  bodies,  tuned  weirdly  with 
the  wash  astern,  so  thought  Looney  Luke,  sitting 
behind  boat  Number  1,  writing,  and  looking  up 
suddenly  at  the  sky  and  down  again  to  what  he 
had  written. 

"A  man's  a  master  of  his  world,  who's  captain 
of  the  sea.  He — " 


20  FUEY 

A  hoarse  shout  behind  him  and  he  listened  and 
Morgan  started  suddenly  at  the  wheel. 

Yuka  pressed  back,  back.  His  throat  bursting 
with  veins,  the  Greek's  palm  pushing  at  his  upper 
lip  and  nose  and  the  gums,  where  teeth  were,  and 
his  knife  slowly,  surely  descending. 

Screams  .  .  .  silence  .  .  .  and  then  eyes  .  .  . 
perhaps  two  pair  which  could  not  watch  murder, 
turned  away,  then  looked  back  suddenly. 

Three  figures  are  in  the  ring,  two  white  and 
one  blue-black;  and  white  lips  scream,  "No,  no! 
Christ,  no! 

Boy  had  kicked  Zeis  back,  kicked  him  in  the 
mouth  as  he  bent  forward. 

And  Zeis,  dripping,  dazed,  trembling,  wondering, 
waited,  panting.  The  second  mate  stood  before  him 
over  the  cowering  form  of  Yuka,  commanding. 

The  crew  upon  their  feet  shouted — what  would 
they  shout?  And  then  silence,  sudden  and  sin- 
ister; and  all  eyes  watched,  fascinated,  the  slowly 
approaching  figure  of  the  Captain. 

Morgan  craned  forward.  It  was  perhaps  the 
only  time  that  he  had  ever  derived  pleasure  from 
the  fact  of  Boy's  presence  upon  the  ship. 

"Now  he'll  get  it!     He'll  get  it!     Look!" 

Father  and  son  .  .  .  and  silence,  Boy's  eyes 
speaking  all  he  had  to  say;  the  crew  taut,  watch- 
ing breathlessly;  Mr.  Hop  bending  over  Yuka. 

"Get  inside!" 

Boy  turned  suddenly,  obediently,  toward  the 
cabin. 


FUEY  21 

Just  for  a  moment  Dog  Leyton  regarded  his 
men. 

The  fight  was  over,  the  spell  was  broken.  After 
this  it  would  be  murder,  not  hot-blooded,  but  cold- 
blooded. The  faces  of  the  crew  asked  a  question 
which  Leyton  did  not  answer. 

He  turned  away  in  the  footsteps  of  his  son. 

An  ugly  rush  as  the  crew  would  re-start  the 
fight  was  stopped  by  a  shout  from  Morgan  at  the 
wheel: 

"Get  down  there!     Clear  decks!" 

Patting  the  slimy  back  of  Zeis,  they  led  him 
away  to  a  hot,  stinking  galley,  a  sweating,  bleed- 
ing victor,  while  Mr.  Hop  puffed  a  little  as  he 
helped  Yuka  to  a  sitting  posture  and  dabbed  his 
wound,  pausing  to  glance  up  smiling  in  response 
to  an  amused  signal  from  his  friend,  Morgan,  then 
following  the  latter's  glance  in  the  direction  of  the 
Captain's  cabin,  the  door  of  which  had  been  slid  to. 

Was  it  cowardice?    Was  Boy  yellow? 

Hard  as  nails,  he  had  fought  with  men  ashore, 
and  on  shipboard,  too,  and  smashed  them,  beaten 
them  <to  a  pulp.  Last  time  they  had  had  to  drag 
him  off.  You  didn't  have  to  draw  him  on,  either; 
he  was  there  and  ready.  Perhaps  a  little  too  ready 
with  the  readiness  that  comes  of  youth  and  sinew 
and  pluck ;  but  this  weakness — ? 

What  was  this  within  him? 

Was  it  his  power  to  love ;  to  love  with  a  tenacity 
which  was  bigger  than  thoughts,  words  or  blows, 


22  FURY 

bigger  than  himself?  Was  it  his  mother  or  God 
from  whom  this  legacy  had  sprung — this  ability 
to  love  with  the  steadfastness  of  the  sea? 

And  whom  did  Boy  love? 

.  .  .  The  cabin  spun  before  him.  A  fist,  knotted 
and  cruel,  with  a  ring  on  the  big  little  finger,  had 
caught  him  squarely  over  the  left  eye. 

When  his  vision  cleared  he  saw  his  father,  roll- 
ing a  bristly,  unshaven  jaw,  round  and  round,  the 
chin  stuck  out  in  sinister  invitation,  distorting  the 
bleared  puffed  eyes  above. 

"Come  on,  ye  yeller  rat!  Hit  me!  Hit  me!  I 
hit  ye;  hit  me!" 

This,  accompanied  by  an  irritating  backhand 
flip  across  the  mouth,  not  too  hard,  carried  with 
it  almost  a  finesse,  with  just  enough  tickle  in  it, 
to  send  the  blood  mounting. 

Boy  answered.  His  fists  closed;  they  were 
coming  up. 

Then  the  fingers  opened  as  a  vise  might.  They 
would  take  that  red  throat  before  him  and  choke 
the  life  out  of  it. 

Passion  swept  a  mist  before  his  eyes,  a  mist 
personed  by  a  horror — a  beast — that  always  had 
been  at  him. 

Then  the  mist  cleared  and  Boy  no  longer  saw 
a  beast,  but  some  one  whom  he  loved — his  father, 
the  old  dad — the  dad  whom  they  all  said  was  half 
dotty. 

Boy's  hands  dropped  to  his  sides;  his  taut  face 


FURY  23 

*• 

melted  into  softening  lines;  his  eyes  shone  gently 

again;  he  swallowed  quickly. 

"I'll  knock  the  dirty  woman  out  o'  yer  hide!" 
The   words   were   bitten   off,    edged    by    hated 

memory. 

"She  was  me  mother,  anyway,  wasn't  she?" 
"Yer  mother  she  was,  and  a  low,  dirty  .  .  ." 
"Stop  that!    Ye  can't  say  that!    Ye  shan't!" 
Again  those  fingers  opened  to  choke  and  again 

that  bristly  jaw  went  round  and  round,  below  thin 

lips  with  white  foam  in  the  corners,  hissing:  "Hit 

me!     Hit  me!" 

It  sounded  like  the  chant  of  a  demon  urging  to 

kill — and  then: 

"You've  got  her  cow  eyes — hers — ye're  her,  in  a 

man — soft,  slimy,  yeller!" 
This  was  answered  by  a  cry,  and  two  pairs  of 

fingers  pressed  and  choked  the  rest. 

The  figure  of  the  father  was  brave,  unresisting, 

waiting,  triumphant.    At  last,  at  last  Boy  showed 

fight! 
Would  he  go  on?    Would  he?    He  could  stop 

him  if  he  wanted  to.     Would  those  fingers  press 

tighter  on   his  throat?     Would  he  try  to  kill? 

Was  the  beast  loosed  at  last?    Had  that  woman, 

that  cow,  that  yellow  streak  been  killed  in  him 

forever? 

A  moment's  breathless  pause  and  pressure  of  the 

fingers  ceased;  Boy's  eyes  raised  from  the  throat 

and  saw  the  face  above  his  hands,  its  eager,  savage 


24  FURY 

gleam  of  madness.    He  let  go  suddenly  and  spoke. 

"Ye  ain't  right,  Father;  ye're  sick." 

"Sick — me,  hey?"  this  with  a  savage  blow 
across  Boy's  mouth. 

But  the  sound  of  the  blow  was  dull.  The  act 
was  dull.  Life  had  left  the  scene,  because  Boy 
stood  still,  very  still,  looking  at  an  old  man,  sud- 
denly convulsed,  crimson,  apoplectic,  pathetic,  who 
tried  to  speak,  and  fell  a  tumbled  mass  upon  the 
floor. 

It  was  Mr.  Hop  who,  having  entered  noiselessly 
a  moment  before  with  a  bowl  of  water,  plaster 
and  towel,  helped  Boy  to  lift  the  limp  and  ghastly 
weight  to  its  bunk;  and  then  he  left  without  a 
word,  as  though  one  of  these  fits  was  the  logical 
reaction  of  the  excitement  of  the  fight. 

Boy  stood  looking  at  the  prostrate  form.  He 
loosed  the  old  man's  collar  and  from  the  sweating 
forehead  brushed  back  the  gray  and  matted  hair. 

As  he  did  this  he  was  startled  by  the  falling  of 
a  drop  of  blood  upon  the  hand  which  but  a  moment 
before  had  struck  him,  then  another  .  .  .  pat  .  .  . 
pat.  .  .  pat.  .  .  they  came. 

He  had  turned  away  before  he  realized  that  they 
were  from  his  own  forehead — where  that  ring  had 
cut  him. 

Boy  took  the  roll  of  plaster  which  Mr.  Hop  had 
brought  and  tried  with  his  clasp  knife  to  cut  a 
piece  from  it  He  found  this  difficult.  His  hands 
trembled.  He  tried  to  tear  it  with  his  teeth. 


FURY  25 

At  the  sound,  the  old  man  turned,  watching;  a 
curious,  strange  calm  upon  his  face. 

Boy  turned,  surprised,  as  without  much  effort 
his  father  rose  and  stood  before  him. 

Not  a  word  was  uttered  as  Dog  Leyton  took  the 
plaster  and  wetting  it  with  his  mouth  placed  it 
gently  on  the  wound  and  said: 

"Ye  bleed  easy,  Boy." 

A  pair  of  eyes  caught  his,  large,  welling, 
woman's  eyes,  brimming  with  love  and  under- 
standing. 

"It's  nothin',  Father.     I  love  ye  all  the  same." 

A  moment's  pause ;  a  hoarse  shout. 

"There  ain't  no  such  thing  as  love." 

The  crash  of  a  bowl  dashed  upon  the  floor. 

"Damn  yer  soft  heart!" 

The  sea  held  the  sun  in  a  parting  embrace,  crim- 
son, gold  and  purple.  She  was  sobbing  softly,  Boy 
thought,  as  he  went  to  the  side  and  listened,  dully ; 
and  then  the  soft  drone  of  music  drummed  softly 
upon  a  single  string  and  Luke's  mellow  voice: 

"Wondrous  are  the  women 

What  trips  our  sturdy  beams, 
Because  they  ain't  here  really, 
They're  only  in  our  dreams." 

Boy  changed  from  one  foot  to  the  other  and 
looked  out  across  his  sea — intensely  wondering. 


PART  II 

"It  you've  never  been  to  Limehouse, 

You've  never  been  to  sea; 
It's  the  dirtiest  spot  in  London, 
But  it's  home,  sweet  home  to  me." 

— LOONEY  LUKE'S  POEMS 


CHAPTEB  I 

MB.  HOP  was  first  seaman,  boatswain,  pay- 
master, clerk,  purser,  doctor,  on  The  Lady 
Spray.    He  was  short,  fat  and  very  dirty. 
He  did  not  look  like  a  sailor,  but  as  a  point  of  fact, 
was   a   particularly   good   one.      Every   language 
came  nicely  to  his  tongue,  from  the  lingo  of  the 
Lascar  to  the  guttural  of  the  Eskimo. 

Mr.  Hop  wore  over  his  undershirt  a  pair  of 
trousers  and  a  waistcoat,  and  was  never  without 
a  large  pair  of  pince-nez  spectacles,  hanging  by  a 
startlingly  fresh  black  ribbon  from  his  neck.  He 
affected  at  all  times  a  Homburg  hat  with  a  guard 
of  string  tied  to  a  buttonhole  of  his  invariably  half- 
opened  waistcoat,  because  this  hat  was  always 
blowing  off.  By  manipulation  of  the  string  he  was 
able  to  flip  it  on  very  cleverly.  He  seemed  never 
to  shave  and  yet  his  beard  at  no  time  appeared 
to  be  more  than  three  days  old.  For  some  un- 
earthly reason,  he  shined  his  shoes. 

It  was  this  same  Mr.  Hop  who  entered  the  tiny 
office  of  the  Anglo-Scottish  Tropical  Navigating 
Company,  Limehouse,  S.E.,  usually  spoken  of  as 
the  A.S.T.N.C.,  with  the  pompous  air  of  a  man  of 
affairs,  and  sitting  uncomfortably  on  an  orange 
box,  wiped  his  brow  and  spoke  one  word: 

"Damn !" 

20 


30  FUEY 

"Sorry,  Cockey,"  observed  the  clerk.  "Where's 
your  old  man?" 

"I'm  'ere.  Who  wants  me?"  And  sure  enough, 
in  full  shore  kit,  stood  Captain  Leyton,  master  of 
The  Lady  Spray.  Leyton  looked  well  again;  he 
had  shaved;  he  always  did  to  come  ashore,  and 
there  was  a  white  top  on  his  cap. 

The  manager  rose  and  approached  him  with 
some  deference. 

"Sorry,  Captain,  yer  fer  Leith  right  away. 
Orders  just  come  down  from  the  city." 

"Damn !"  said  the  Captain,  just  as  Mr.  Hop  had. 
"I've  let  the  crew  off.  I'll  lose  a  tide.  What  the 
hell's  all  this  changin'  fer,  anyway?" 

"Orders  is  orders,  as  you  as  a  master  know  full 
well,  Captain."  The  manager,  a  tall,  thin  Mr. 
Petwee,  with  a  drooping  mustache,  proffered  a 
cigar. 

"Thanks,  Mr.  Petwee."  The  sea  captain  turned 
automatically.  "Mr.  'Op,  will  yer  please  razzle  the 
bunch  an'  get  'em  back?  I'll  make  the  8.15  tide." 

"Aye,  aye,  sir."  Mr.  Hop  and  his  books  and  his 
hat  left  the  office  with  a  bang  of  the  door. 

That  Captain  Leyton  was  one  of  the  quietest  and 
ablest  masters  in  the  British  mercantile  service, 
as  Mr.  Petwee  had  often  observed,  refuting  sundry 
insinuations,  but  he  admitted  that  Dog  Leyton  was 
a  hot  'un. 

"He  keeps  'is  crew,  don't  'e?"  Mr.  Petwee  would 
assert.  "There's  Morgan,  'is  first,  been  with  'im 
goin'  on  five-an'-twenty  years." 


FURY  31 

Mr.  Petwee  liked  Captain  Leyton ;  Dog  appealed 
to  his  imagination.  He  presented,  ashore,  the 
quiet  calm  and  almost  polish  of  the  British  sea- 
master  of  tradition;  and  Mr.  Petwee  knew  a  good 
deal.  Petwee  represented  to  Leyton  the  Company ; 
he  was  sound  and  one  of  the  few  landsmen  who 
knew  how  to  handle  seamen  with  the  tact  that 
comes  of  long  experience.  The  two  had  been 
friends  for  thirty  years,  and  Petwee's  heart  and 
ear  had  been  audience  to  his  suffering  that  time 
when  Leyton's  wife  had  left  him.  He  was  one  of 
them  as  could  drink  a  glass  or  two  of  whiskey  with- 
out lowerin'  his  standin'.  Leyton,  mad  drunk  in 
The  Three  Jolly  Sailors,  had  poured  out  his  grief, 
his  shame,  his  hate,  his  curse  into  Petwee's  ear, 
and  the  latter  had  never  referred  to  the  subject 
since. 

Neither  had  Leyton. 

Petwee  had  said  the  right  thing  at  -the  time  and 
he  had  said  the  right  thing  since  by  saying  nothing. 

Thus,  there  was  a  bond  between  these  men,  and 
that  wras  perhaps  why  Petwee  was  now  more  than 
anxious  that  The  Lady  Spray  should  make  Leith 
on  this  trip. 

"I  wanted  'arf  a  word  with  ye  about  Leith, 
Cap'n.  I  got  some  news." 

Quickly  Leyton  turned.  "What  news — about 
what?  who!"  He  seemed  to  fill  the  tiny  office, 
suddenly. 

"  'Ow  about  a  spot  o'  comfort  down  at  Thfj 
Sailors  an'  I'll  tell  ye." 


CHAPTER  II 

C LANCET,  one  of  my  Lady  Spray's  estimable 
crew,  who  has  not  yet  been  formally  intro- 
duced, having  warmed  the  inner  man  with 
a  couple  of  rums  cold,  paused,  gazing  up  at  the 
somber,  dirty  structure  known  to  fame  as  Mrs. 
Brent's  Sailors'  Rest.  His  song  about  an  Irish 
mother  died  upon  his  lips.  He  ascended  the  five 
steps,  pulled  the  string  which  passed  through  a 
hole  to  the  latch  on  the  inside  of  the  door,  and 
entered.  Clancey  had  a  mission,  and  that  mission 
was  important  and  secret. 

Mrs.  Brent  posed  as  the  mother  of  all  sailors. 
Indeed,  it  was  once  remarked  that  she  was  large 
enough  to  be  mother  of  the  entire  British  navy. 
True,  she  was  large,  muscular  and  drunk — always 
drunk,  and  this  good,  Christian  woman,  running 
a  good  Christian  home,  was  a  scheming  old  hypo- 
crite. 

Minnie  Brent,  Boy's  Minnie,  could  have  told  you 
without  any  trouble  a  lot  more  that  Ma  Brent  was. 
Minnie  wasn't  Mrs.  Brent's  real  daughter.  Every- 
body knew  she  wasn't  that.  Had  she  been,  far  less 
might  have  been  said  and  thought  about  Minnie, 
because  "a  woman's  got  a  right  to  do  as  she  likes 
with  'er  own  child" — at  least,  that  was  the  view- 
point of  Lamehouse. 

32 


FURY  33 

But  Minnie  wasn't  Ma  Brent's  daughter  and 
every  one  knew  it,  though  who  Minnie's  parents 
were — well,  every  one  knew  that  nobody  knew  that 
either. 

The  main  large  room  of  the  Sailors'  Rest,  the 
dining  room,  was  the  scene  of  an  argument  as 
Clancey  entered,  and  Mrs.  Brent,  taut,  tall  and 
tipsy,  listened  with  arms  akimbo.  She  wanted 
somebody  to  say  something  about  Queen  Mary  or 
Horatio  Bottomley  or  Lloyd  George — that  was  all. 
Let  'em  start!  She  felt  in  excellent  trim  and 
spoiling  for  a  fight.  But  she  was  to  wait  in  vain 
because  the  six  or  seven  nondescript  resting  sailors 
were  concerned  at  that  moment  with  a  heated  dis- 
cussion of  the  bootlegging  possibilities  round  the 
Florida  coast  of  the  States. 

"It's  seamen  they  want  an'  they'll  pay  good.  Ye 
don't  mind  gettin'  killed  if  ye're  paid  fer  it." 

Mrs.  Brent  turned  quickly  as  Clancey  en- 
tered. 

"'Ullo  there,  Cockey  wax!  The  Spray's  in? 
Where's  the  boys?" 

Clancey  glanced  and  spoke  quickly.  His  was  an 
important  mission. 

"Mr.  Morgan's  comin'  right  down  to  see  Minnie. 
He  sent  me  along  to  tell  ya" 

A  broad  smile  labored  across  Mr*.  Brent's  vast 
features. 

"Righto,  me  lad!  Get  yenself  a  glass  o'  stout. 
Ye  know  where  to  find  it." 

Mrs.  Brent  weighed  anchor  and  steamed  away, 


34  FUKY 

highly  pleased  because  she  had  always  liked  Mor- 
gan. But  there,  what  woman  didn't? 

Morgan  possessed  a  certain  restraint  that 
matched  his  height.  His  knowledge  of  women  was 
uncanny  and  those  that  had  loved  him  knew  that 
under  that  veneer,  those  set,  subtle  flatteries,  that 
quiet  though tfulness,  a  ruthless  cruelty  dwelt  en- 
caved,  waiting  to  spring  out  when  tired  of  looking 
at  the  fun,  to  deal  a  sharp-taloned,  seldom-healing 
blow. 

And  Mrs.  Brent  knew  this.  It  had  amused  her 
for  years. 

She  liked  Morgan,  that  was  all  there  was  to  it; 
and  she  felt  she  was  the  one  person  in  the  world 
to  whom  his  second  and  crueller  nature  would 
mean  nothing. 

Why?  Because  she  was  scared  of  no  man.  One 
of  the  main  reasons  for  Morgan's  appeal  to  her 
was  the  possibility  of  a  good  mix-up.  What  a 
Saturday-nigh ter  he'd  make,  this  Morgan!  He 
was  the  right  height,  and  all.  "Ye  wouldn't  'ave 
to  stoop  down  to  slog  'im." 

So  she  bided  her  time  and  waited.  If  it  was 
Mr.  Morgan's  pleasure  to  cast  an  eye  on  Minnie, 
well  be  that  as  it  may,  Min  it  should  be;  and 
Morgan  should  see  hers,  Mrs.  Brent's  capable  hand 
in  helping  things  along  for  him  in  that  direction. 

Every  man  must  have  a  bit  of  fun,  and  Min,  for 
some  unearthly  reason,  lay  in  the  way  of  some 
men's  taste.  Why  Morgan,  with  his  refinement, 


FURY  35 

should — but,  well  .  .  .  "Ye  don't  know  men,  how- 
ever well  ye  know  'em,  but  all  sailors  come  'ome." 

If  he  wanted  a  bit  of  skirt  like  Min,  if  he  liked 
'em  small  with  rat-hair  and  pig-eyes,  well,  what 
of  it?  Tire  him  of  the  small  ones  and  then  his 
taste  would  be  for  the  large — that  was  logic.  Mrs. 
Brent  was  large.  She  knew  men.  She  knew  her 
man  of  the  sea.  Tell  him  nothing;  let  him  do  and 
say  it  all.  "Get  be'ind  a  'orse  to  drive  it." 

And  now,  glancing  round  the  large,  untidy 
room,  her  mind  worked  quickly. 

"Come  on,  some  o'  ye  slobs,  get  this  deck  cleaned 
up  like  good  boys.  I'm  expectin'  some  private  com- 
pany. Make  it  snappy!" 

Mrs.  Brent  had  lately  seen  an  American  movie 
and  the  "make  it  snappy"  line  appealed  to  her. 

The  sea  gentlemen  present  looked  up. 

"Who  is  it,  Ma?  Yer  Sunday-go-to-meetin' 
bloke?" 

This  was  followed  by  a  general  bustling  to  obey. 

Clancey  emerged  from  the  next  room  with  a 
large  glass  of  stout  in  his  hand,  and  glancing 
round  furtively  he  flicked  some  froth  from  his  red 
mustache. 

His  mission  was  not  yet  complete;  at  least  his 
most  private  mission  wasn't,  so  while  the  resters 
cluttered  round  to  straighten  up  the  backless 
chairs  and  pools  of  brown  coffee  on  the  table, 
Clancey  drew  one  man  aside  and  asked  quickly: 
"Where's  Min?" 


36  FUEY 

"Wasliin'  up  in  the  sink."  His  informant  jerked 
a  thumb  in  the  direction  of  a  half -open  door  at 
the  back  of  the  room. 

Clancey  noted  the  direction  with  his  eyes  and 
paused  thoughtfully.  The  road  wasn't  clear.  Mrs. 
Brent,  changing  her  apron,  was  moving  toward  the 
mirror,  a  long  coil  of  lank  hair  trailing  down,  wait- 
ing to  be  rolled  up  again  in  evening  fashion.  She'd 
be  done  in  a  minute  and  then  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  III 

SAILOES  eat  eggs  an'  jam  for  tea  at  five  o'clock 
on  shore  an'  eggs  an'  jam  sticks  to  dishes. 

Soda  in  the  water  gets  the  marks  off  plates 
quick,  but  then  soda  blisters  an'  wrinkles  yer 
hands  an'  if  it  'appens  to  be  the  day  that  the  ship 
with  yer  bloke  on  gets  in,  the  extra  trouble  of 
rubbin'  is  worth  it. 

So  Min  was  rubbing  hard.  A  mountain  of 
cracked  plates  of  all  colors  and  sizes  towered  al- 
most to  the  ceiling;  and  the  clouds  of  steam  were 
so  thick  that  you  couldn't  see  the  top  of  the  moun- 
tain. Min  had  thought  of  this  once  and  had  said 
to  herself,  with  biting  sarcasm:  "Ain't  nature 
grand?" 

She  paused  to  look  into  a  cup  before  dipping  it. 
It  was  a  Queen  Victoria's  Coronation  cup,  the  one 
that  Mrs.  Brent  always  used,  and  the  tea  leaves 
sticking  to  a  thick  layer  of  undissolved  sugar  pre- 
sented a  striking  pattern.  What  a  fortune  to-day ! 
Yesterday,  the  cup  had  fallen  into  the  water  and 
Min  couldn't  read  it,  and  things  had  gone  wrong, 
because  she  had  not  been  pre-warned,  but  to-day, 
look! 

Lummie!  a  line  of  tea-leaves  worked  their  way 
down  to — what  was  that  thing?  A  sewing  ma- 
chine? No!  A  twist  upside  down.  What  was  it? 

37 


38  FURY 

Something  unusual,  but  look!  it  was,  it  was — 
hooray !  Look ! 

And  there  before  Min's  gaze,  at  the  bottom  of 
the  cup,  stood  the  most  perfect  hearse.  There  were 
two  horses  and  a  driver  in  a  topper. 

Ma  Brent  was  going  to  die!  No,  that  was  too 
good  to  be  true.  But  cups  never  lie.  Damn  her! 
Hers  was  coming  to  her  at  last!  She  was  going 
to  peg  out  and  Satan  was  going  to  drag  her  and 
her  fifteen  stone  of  blinkin'  misery  down,  down  to 
.  .  .  and  Min's  lips  came  together  and  her  odd 
'brows  contracted.  Her  thin  body  shook  with 
ecstasy  as  the  Queen's  Coronation  cup  sank  sud- 
denly— too  suddenly — below  the  suds,  struck  bot- 
tom and  cracked. 

And  then  the  thought,  the  tragic  thought  in 
Min's  mind :  Would  Ma  Brent  die  before  breakfast 
to-morrow?  If  she  lived  only  that  long  she  would 
see  the  crack.  But  perhaps  even  if  she  lived  she'd 
be  sickenin'  for  that  funeral  and  wouldn't  have  the 
strength  to  clout  and  curse  and  tell  Min  what  she 
was. 

Min  knew  that  well  enough.  She  didn't  need  no 
tellin'.  She  was  of  uncertain  origin,  a  product  of 
sailor-town.  What  more  could  be  said!  Slight, 
cheeky,  whimsical,  seventeen,  she  knew  a  lot  more 
than  "what"  she  was — in  fact,  she  knew  everything 
there  was  to  be  known  about  men  and  women ;  and 
it  was,  perhaps,  because  of  this  definite  knowledge 
that  Minnie  was  a  "good  girl." 

Every  one  didn't  think  so;  in  fact,  most  people 


FURY  39 

thought  and  said  differently  when  discussing  Min 
and  Mrs.  Brent's  penchant  for  paste  jewels  and  gin 
and  the  money  she  spent  and  the  tick  she  gave  to 
sailors  she  liked. 

"It's  a  crime  what  she  makes  that  Min  do  down 
at  The  Rest,"  they  would  say. 

But  Min  knew  she  was  good ;  and  it  wasn't  Mrs. 
Brent's  fault  neither,  not  by  a  long  sight,  it  wasn't. 

And  her  Boy  knew,  because  she  had  told  him  so, 
and  if  Boy  knew  and  Boy  loved  her,  come  rack, 
come  rope,  she  didn't  give  a  tinker's  dam  for 
nobody. 

And  then  again,  Min  knew  that  there  wasn't  a 
really  bad  sailor  in  the  world.  She  knew  a  sailor's 
heart — the  heart  he  found  at  sea,  when  hope  and 
love  and  a  tiny  spark  of  God  stole  out  of  the  vast 
silences  into  him  and  made  him  long  for  home  and 
kids  and  think  how  he'd  protect  them  and  fight  for 
them. 

And  then  the  sailor  knowing,  perhaps,  that  this 
could  never  be,  would  lock  those  thoughts  in  a 
treasure  chest  and  to  that  Min  had  the  passkey. 

When  drunken  arms  seized  her,  and  rough  hands 
tore  at  her  blouse,  she  just  whispered: 

"I  ain't  as  strong  as  you  are,  matey,  an'  if  I 
was  yer  own  kid,  ye'd  fight  fer  me,  wouldn't  ye? 
Ye'd  kill  a  bloke  what  bruised  me!" 

And  a  pair  of  watery  green  eyes  would  seek  eyes 
rum-crazed,  and  hold  them,  and  command  them, 
and  the  treasure  chest  within  the  man  would  open 
and  .  .  and  . 


40  FURY 

Did  you  know  that  sailors  wept? 

And  Min  would  kiss  the  rough  hand  and  say, 
"Blimey,  matey,  yer  my  idea  of  a  man  an'  I  wish 
ye  were  me  daddy." 

And  a  man  would  rise  and  walk  away;  and  Min 
would  look  after  the  retreating  figure  of  a  new 
champion  clad  in  armor,  a  gentleman  with  her 
silken  glove  upon  his  lance;  and  she  would  watch, 
breathless,  until  her  knight  disappeared  into  the 
foggy  shades  of  Limehouse. 

Minnie  Brent  knew  what  she  was.  Mrs.  Brent 
didn't  have  to  keep  telling  her.  She  also  knew 
what  she  really  was:  a  girl,  a  "good  girl,"  who 
could  work  and  cook  and  love  and  wait — wait  for 
Boy,  her  Boy,  who  loved  her. 

And  he  was  due  home  to-day,  or  to-morrow, 
and  .  .  . 

She  looked  up  as  Mrs.  Brent  wafted  into  the 
steaming  scullery,  exuding  a  strong  odor  of  musk. 
She  had  lots  of  it  now ;  Marty  had  brought  her  in 
a  lot  from  the  last  tript 

A  glance  at  Ma's  tidied  appearance  and  Min 
knew  something  was  up.  The  Coronation  cup  was 
well  hidden  away.  Ma  glanced  at  her  and  hic- 
coughed loudly.  A  glass  of  stout  lends  body  to  a 
woman. 

"Clean  yerself  up,  The  Spray's  in.  Mr.  Morgan's 
comin'  down." 

"What,  Morgan?     'Im  again?" 

"Yes,  Mister  Morgan.  What  the  'ell  'e  sees  in 
you,  I  can't  imagine;  but  Mister  Morgan  it  is. 


FURY  41 

And — drop  that  cloth  an'  finish  these  after.  Turn 
yer  gas  down  an'  leave  yer  water  on.  Take  my 
blue  shawl  out  o'  the  cupboard  an'  get  them  curlers 
out  o'  yer  'air." 

This  was  a  death-blow.  The  steam  would  take 
out  the  curl  after,  and  those  curlers  had  been  in 
for  a  week,  waiting  for  Boy. 

"I'll  put  me  'at  on  over  'em." 

"Ye'll  do  as  yer  told!  Another  word  out  o'  yer 
cheeky  mouth  an'  I'll  .  .  ." 

Ma's  strong  fingers  had  seized  a  Hinds  curler 
full  of  soft,  mouse-colored  hair. 

"Get  'em  off  before  I  pull  'em  off.  An'  get  a 
bite  o'  soap  to  work  on  that  neck.  What  any  man 
can  see  in  yer  skinny  .  .  ." 

"Argh!  G'wan,  shut  up;  I'm  doin'  it,  ain't  I? 
I  don't  want  no  Morgan  to  see  nothin'  in  me." 

But  Ma  Brent  had  left,  and  Min  with  a  wisdom 
born  of  hard  experience  followed  the  line  of  least 
resistance. 

Boy  was  home — home  from  the  sea  and  he 
should  see  her  with  her  hair  curled  and  the  blue 
shawl,  if  she  had  to  duck  for  it. 

Boy  seldom  came  to  the  Eest.  Mrs.  Brent  didn't 
cotton  to  him,  and  he  didn't  like  her.  He'd  shov/ 
it  by  not  talking,  and  the  only  thing  Mrs.  Brent 
feared  was  silence.  Then,  there  was  that  grousy 
old  dad  of  his,  teaching  Boy  to  hate  everything, 
every  one. 

The  door  opened  and  she  turned.  Clancey 
sneaked  in. 


42  FUEY 

"  'Ullo,  Minnikins !  Boy  says  Vll  be  off  watch 
in  'arf  an  hour.  He  wants  you  to  meet  'im  in 
Lock'art's." 

Min  twisted  a  curl  of  hair  into  place  and  throw- 
ing her  head  back  with  mock  drama,  she  placed 
her  hand  upon  her  heart. 

"And  did  me  lover  send  'is  love?" 

Of  course,  she  knew  she  was  going  to  meet  Boy 
at  Lockhart's.  She  always  did.  Boy  didn't  have 
to  send  to  remind  her;  but  that  was  like  Boy,  he 
was  always  so  careful. 

"  'Ow's  Boy  keepin'  himself,  Clan?" 

"Foine!"  And  Clancey  watched  her,  interested. 
Min  wasn't  pretty,  but  she  had  a  way  with  her. 

"You'll  hexcuse  a  lady  performin'  of  her  toilette 
before  ye,  Mr.  C." 

Clancey  would  excuse  anything. 

"Pipe  the  bleedin'  lamb  bein'  led  to  the 
slaughter." 

He  looked  up  quickly  at  this.  "You  mean,  Mor- 
gan? He's  on  ye,  ain't  he?" 

"He  ain't  on  or  off,  'e's  nowhere." 

Clancey's  eyes  twinkled  mischievously.  "You 
love  yer  Boy  though,  don't  you,  Min?" 

"What,  Boy?  my  Boy?"  And  two  green  eyes 
filled  suddenly.  "Blimey,  you  said  it!" 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  sitting-room,  the  holy  of  holies  where 
Mrs.  Brent  received  her  private  company, 
was  on  the  other  side  of  the  hall.  It  was 
a  beautiful  room,  over-furnished  and  difficult  to 
get  around;  an  oppressive,  musty-smelling  cup- 
board. Pictures  of  sailors  were  everywhere;  wax 
flowers  vied  for  prominence  with  china  anchors. 
Mrs.  Brent's  own  dear,  dead  father  hung  side  by 
side  with  her  first  and  second  dead  husbands. 

There  were  also  three  pictures  of  Our  Saviour; 
a  text  "Rock  of  Ages  Cleft  for  Me";  horsehair 
high-backed  chairs,  that  cost  easily  a  quid  apiece; 
a  rug  from  Persia;  curtains  from  Spain;  cushion 
covers  from  Japan. 

Oh,  but  then,  of  course,  a  woman  of  Mrs.  Brent's 
refinement  and  taste  must  have  somewhere  that 
which  would  bespeak  her  character. 

It  was  here  that  the  Reverend  W.  F.  P.  Vane 
called  monthly  to  thank  her  for  her  gentle,  Chris- 
tian home  and  her  uplifting  influence  upon  the 
lives  of  "our  dear  brave  sailors."  It  was  here, 
upon  that  very  couch,  that  Montague  Brent  had 
proposed  and  his,  the  fifth,  with  the  third  and 
fourth  husbands'  pictures  would  have  been  hung 
above  it,  but  that  she  was  afraid  to  remove  the 
three  pictures  of  Our  Saviour. 

43 


44  FURY 

It  was  here,  into  this  stately  room,  that  the  tall 
figure  of  Mr.  Morgan  was  ushered. 

He  looked  very  much  "the  lad,"  so  Mrs.  Brent 
thought,  in  his  brown  cap  and  his  brown  suit  to 
match.  His  bright  brown  boots  creaked  a  bit  so 
Mrs.  Brent  told  him  he  could  get  the  squeak  out 
in  water.  While  fastening  an  Indian  leg  ornament 
around  her  wrist  for  a  bangle  (just  a  little  pres- 
ent) he  remarked,  casually,  that  it  was  raining 
outside  and  he'd  walked  up,  and  yet  the  shoes 
weren't  cured.  Mrs.  Brent  remarked  she  must  be 
wrong  and  what  a  "one"  he  was  to  pick  her  up 
so  quickly  "has  to  the  haccuracy  of  her  statements 
with  regards  to  his  boots,"  which  were  just  the 
gentlemanly  color. 

"And  Min's  downright  glad  about  your  comin', 
too,  Mr.  Morgan." 

Ma  Brent  beamed  upon  him  as  he  sat  suddenly 
upon  the  high-backed  sofa  for  two  and  drew  out 
something  wrapped  in  tissue  paper. 

"Minnie's  a  lucky  girl.  I  was  tellin'  her  so." 
Mrs.  Brent  was  furtively  eyeing  the  package. 

"What'd  she  say  to  that?"  The  question  was 
hard  and  sudden. 

"She  cried  with  joy,  Mr.  Morgan;  straight  she 
did;  and  I  cried  with  'er.  Ye're  very  dear  to  me, 
Mr.  Morgan,  ye  know  that  yerself." 

He  glanced  up,  a  strange  look  in  his  eyes. 
"Well,  when  Min  comes  across  fair  ye'll  have  a 
nice  little  somethin'  comin',  Ma,  and  ye  know  that 
all  right,  all  right." 


FURY  45 

"A  glass  of  stout,  Mr.  Morgan?" 

"No  tar,  Ma,  it  affects  me  breath,  and  .  .  ." 

Mrs.  Brent  screwed  up  her  eyes  and  coyly 
pointed  a  fat  finger  at  him.  "Ye  ain't  'arf  a  lady's 
man,  ye  ar'n't.  .  .  .  Lucky  Min,  I  say,  lucky 
Min!" 

She  turned  as  Morgan  rose  suddenly  and 
"Lucky  Min"  stood  at  the  door,  her  curls  and  coils 
of  hair  in  bewildering  directions  glistened  in  the 
incandescent  light  from  the  hall  and  the  shawl 
thrown  round  her  shoulders  in  a  certain — yes,  Min 
had  a  way  with  her,  all  right;  she  wasn't  pretty, 
but  she  had  a  way. 

"Good  evenin',  Minnie  dear,"  Morgan  broke  the 
momentary  silence  with  a  very  heavy  bass  voice. 
He  walked  forward  with  confidence. 

"How  are  ye,  Mr.  M.?"  piped  Min,  and  walked 
forward  with  equal  assurance. 

Mrs.  Brent  paused  at  the  door.  If  ever  she  hated 
Minnie,  it  was  now. 

"I  trust  Mr.  Morgan  won't  'ave  cause  fer  com- 
plaint as  regards  his  reception,  Minnie  dear." 

Minnie's  eyes  came  round.  She  looked  like  a 
mouse  posing  for  its  profile.  "Oh,  don't  mensh', 
Ma  dear." 

The  door  closed  and  she  was  alone  with  Morgan. 

"Minnie,  ye  look  fine!" 

"Do  I,  now,  Mr.  M.?  That's  nice  of  yer  to  re- 
mark that,  so  to  speak." 

"I  mean  it,  Min.  I  find  words  difficult  to  ex- 
press in  a  social  manner  o'  speaking,  so  I  posted 


46  FURY 

ye  a  letter  with  a  lot  o'  me  thoughts  in  it,  as  re- 
gards you.  You'll  'ave  it  in  the  morning." 

"Pine!    I  like  letters  to  come." 

Morgan  bent  a  little  forward,  stiffly.  His  hand 
stole  scrapily  down  the  horsehair  stuffing,  seeking 
hers. 

Min  had  been  to  the  movies  more  than  once  and 
all  the  heroines  seemed  to  carry  a  little  handker- 
chief in  their  hands;  thus,  the  hand  that  Morgan 
sought,  sensing  its  large,  red  pursuer,  closed  round 
a  tiny  pink  handkerchief  and  went  all  the  way  up 
to  Minnie's  snub  nose  and  paused  just  under  it, 
while  Minnie  sniffed  unnaturally. 

Min's  eyes  turned  suddenly  at  the  rustle  of  tissue 
paper,  which  was  wrapped  round  something  upon 
Morgan's  knee.  She  watched — she  wasn't  inter- 
ested, not  a  bit!  Not  in  nothing  he  brought. 

"Min,  I  picked  this  up  in  Gibraltar,"  Morgan's 
voice  was  a  full  tone  louder.  "I  felt  it  would  suit 
your  type."  And  a  high  Spanish  comb  came  into 
view;  a  beautiful  piece,  with  several  diamonds  in 
the  top. 

Min's  head  was  perfectly  still  as  Morgan  rev- 
erently, almost  delicately,  pushed  the  five  large 
teeth  into  the  most  important  coil  of  her  hair,  and, 
with  almost  an  effeminate  flick  of  his  finger,  ad- 
justed a  hairpin  that  became  dislodged  during  the 
operation. 

"Minnie,  it  looks  great.  Take  a  look  at  yourself." 

Then  Min,  feeling  at  least  seven  feet  tall,  and 
walking  forward  with  a  steady  balancing  motion, 


F  U  E  Y  47 

like  the  muffin-man  who  carries  his  tray  on  his 
head  on  Sunday  afternoons,  glided  to  the  glass  and 
looked  at  another  Min.  The  diamonds  flashed,  and 
Morgan's  voice  seemed  miles  away. 

Min,  Minnie  Brent — she  knew  all  along  that  this 
Morgan  didn't  want  to  marry  her !  She  knew  that 
Ma  Brent  knew  that,  and  she  knew  that  Ma  Brent 
knew  there  was  no  getting  Min  any  other  way  than 
to  try  and  trick  her.  She  knew,  also,  that  there 
had  been  a  foul  bargain  between  Morgan  and  her 
foster-mother,  unlikely,  improbable,  if  you  like, 
but  too  true. 

Morgan  was  piqued  by  Minnie's  indifference.  He 
was  after  her.  She  sensed  it.  He  showed  it  in 
everything  he  did;  in  every  breath  he  took. 

For  peace  and  quiet  and  policy's  sake  she  had 
given  in  to  Ma  Brent  and  now  sat  in  with  him, 
but  this  bloke  didn't  mean  anything  more  than 
that  he  wanted  her  and  he  was  going  to  get  her 
somehow,  and  in  some  way  her  foster-mother  was 
going  to  profit  by  his  success,  if  he  had  any. 

So  here  she  was,  looking  like  the  bloomin'  Queen 
of  Sheba  .  .  .  and  Morgan  coming  closer,  looking 
like  .  .  . 

"Wanderin'  'ands  .  .  ." 

She  could  trick  him,  too.  She  didn't  want  the 
bloody  comb.  She  didn't  want  nothing  that  Boy 
didn't  give  her — no;  nothing. 

But  Boy  was  home  and  she'd  got  to  have  a 
chance  to  see  him  and  she  didn't  want  no  row, 
now;  not  by  a  long  shot. 


48  FURY 

They  were  seated  again  on  the  couch,  and  Min 
sighed  lightly  looking  across,  sideways,  at  a  ship 
in  glass  on  the  table,  at  her  elbow.  She  wished  to 
the  bloomin'  Lord  she  was  in  glass  at  that  moment. 

Morgan  was  speaking.  "Some'ow,  I  feel,  Min, 
as  you  can't  stand  me  at  any  price." 

She  turned  and  looked  into  his  face.  She  was 
the  lady  in  the  movies  now,  a  kiddin'  of  some  bloke 
as  she  didn't  want;  and  he?  Anyway,  it  didn't 
matter  about  the  plot;  she  was  the  lady  kiddin'  'im. 
That  was  sufficient. 

"Oh,  don't  feel  that  way,  Mr.  M.  Was  you  wish- 
ful to  splice  me?" 

"Would  you  get  spliced,  if  I  arsked  yuh?  Would 
yuh,  Min?" 

"Mr.  M.,  yer  so  sudden." 

"Min,  ye've  got  me  on  a  string.  Ye've  got  me 
fair  an'  proper,  baby.  Ye've  .  .  ." 

So  this  bloody  calf  was  trying  to  kid  her !  Her, 
Min!  Minnie  Brent!  He's  got  his  nerve!  Hark 
to  him,  what  muck!  He  was  still  talking. 

Now  was  the  time  to  sigh  again  and  look  away. 
He  was  kidding  her,  and  she  was  kidding  him. 

What  swine  men  were! 

And  then  a  rough  hand  fumbled  under  her 
shawl.  .  .  . 

There  was  a  snarl  like  the  yelp  of  a  dog,  a  crash 
...  a  ship  in  glass  hurled  ...  a  diamond  comb 
under  little  heels  .  .  .  the  slam  of  a  door  .  .  . 
and  Morgan  was  alone. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  Three  Jolly  Sailors  was  one  of  the  nicest 
pubs  round  Noak's  wharf.  Mr.  Brisley,  the 
proprietor,  had  been  there  for  forty  years. 
He  was  a  town  councilor  and  a  Buffalo  in  good 
standing.  He  prided  himself  on  the  clubby  atmos- 
phere of  his  saloon-bar.  Under  the  portrait  of 
Edward  VII  over  the  mantelpiece,  Mr.  Brisley 
himself  smiled  forth  from  two  frames;  one  with 
himself  as  an  oarsman  and  the  other  of  himself 
just  about  to  start  on  the  London-to-Brighton 
walk,  seven  years  back.  So,  of  course,  The  Jolly 
•Sailors  was  naturally  a  place  for  a  quiet,  confiden- 
tial talk  over  a  glass  of  whiskey. 

At  a  table  by  the  window,  Dog  Leyton,  draining 
his  seventh,  listened  intently,  looking  away,  a 
vague  look  of  distance  in  his  eyes,  while  Mr. 
Petwee,  still  on  his  second,  talked  with  an  elo- 
quence which  would  have  moved  any  one  on  earth 
but  Dog  Leyton  to  tears. 

The  present  subject  had  been  commenced  and 
dismissed  several  times;  generalities  and  shipping 
had  been  discussed;  and  now  Petwee  had  eagerly 
begun  again  upon  the  first  topic. 

"Life's  too  short,  Captain.  I'm  going  to  chance 
your  offense  and  tell  it  ye  to  yer  face.  Ye  loved 

49 


50  FURY 

her,  ye  know  ye  did.  Whatever  she's  been,  she's 
a  woman  and  ye  love  'er  still." 

Leyton  turned  suddenly.  "What  else  have  ye 
to  tell  me?  Make  it  short." 

Petwee  moved  his  glass  aside  and  bent  forward 
eagerly.  "Only  to  ask  you  to  search  within  yerself 
fer  yer  own  'eart.  Be  the  real  big  feller  that  ye 
are  and  forgive.  Go  to  her — she  needs  ye." 

"Go  to  who?  .  .  .  Why?"  Leyton  swung  round, 
facing  him. 

"You  either  can't  or  ye  won't  understand." 

Leyton's  hand  commanded  silence.  He  spat  de- 
liberately and  flung  his  cigar-end  away,  drained  his 
drink,  his  eyes  half-closed,  and  rose  and  carried 
the  glass  to  the  bar. 

Mrs.  Brisley  beamed.  "Another  spot,  Captain 
Leyton?  One  on  the  'ouse?  Yes,  do." 

A  curt  nod  answered  her,  and  leaning  with  both 
elbows  upon  the  bar,  the  sea  captain  lowered  his 
head  and  gazed  into  the  sawdust  ...  as  if  search- 
ing there  for  something. 

Petwee  came  and  stood  beside  him.  "I  have 
written  the  address  in  case  you  relent  It's  up 
from  The  Thistle  on  the  waterfront." 

Leyton  looked  up  suddenly.  The  paper  and  the 
drink  had  arrived  simultaneously  in  either  hand. 
He  drank  first  and  then  read  what  Petwee  had 
written : 

"MacFarlane's  Rescue  Home, 
Waterfront, 

Leith." 


FUKY  51 

"I  never  thought  to  ask  what  name  she  was  there 
Tinder.  They're  very  nice  up  at  the  'ome  there. 
They  worked  miracles  for  'er.  Put  it  in  yer  pocket, 
anyway."  And  Petwee  gently  pushed  a  hand 
which  trembled  violently. 

Leyton  put  the  fragment  of  paper  in  his  pocket 
and  turned  brusquely  to  Petwee.  "Ye're  way 
be'ind.  Come  on,  drink  up!" 

"Fill  'em  up,  Ma." 

And  again  the  arms  on  the  bar  and  again  that 
head  down,  searching  for  that  something  in  the 
sawdust. 

Some  one  asked  Petwee  for  a  light  and  Mr.  Hop 
came  in  and  spoke  to  the  Captain. 

"All  O.K.,  sir." 

Leyton  looked  up  suddenly  and  only  Petwee 
would  have  noticed  a  tinge  of  irony  in  Mr.  Hop's 
tone  as  he  said:  "Feeling  all  right,  Captain?" 

"Eh?     What?    What?" 

"Mr.  Morgan'll  be  right  down,  sir.  He  was  up 
at  The  Rest.  I  give  'im  yer  orders.  The  men  are 
gettin'  aboard." 

Without  a  word,  Leyton  turned  his  back  on  Mr. 
Hop,  who  left. 

"Good  health!"  and  two  glasses  raised. 

It  was  Dog  Leyton  who  suddenly  broke  the 
silence  that  followed.  In  a  peculiar  manner  he 
gripped  Petwee's  arm  and  lurched  towards  his 
ear.  "Who  .  .  .  did  she  get  away  with?  .  .  . 
You  know." 

"Who?"    Petwee  pulled  away  a  step. 


52  FUEY 

"You  know  who.  You  dirty  liar,  you  do?  Who 
was  it?" 

The  grip  on  Petwee's  arm  tightened  painfully. 
Petwee  knew  his  man.  Dog  was  dangerous  when 
he  was  like  this;  that  ferocious  fighting  hate  of 
opposition;  that  .  .  . 

"Tell  me,  Petwee,  who?    Who?" 

Petwee  straightened  up.  He  was  no  funk;  he 
was  the  kind  of  thin  man  who  marches  in  at  the 
head  of  strike-breakers. 

"Get  off  my  arm !"    He  shook  it  free. 

Leyton's  eyes  sparkled  quickly  and  then  dulled. 
"Drink  up.  Come  on." 

"Certainly." 

"Who  was  it?  Come  on,  ye  know.  How'd  she 
get  to  Leith?  Is  that  where  she  went  first?" 

"I  don't  know.  All  I  know  is  that  whoever  'e 
was,  'e  deserted  her." 

"Threw  'er  out,  eh?"  Leyton's  hat  tipped  to  the 
back  of  his  head  as  he  wiped  his  brow. 

"That's  about  the  size  of  it.  She'd  been  drinkin' 
heavily  fer  years.  It  had  got  'er  proper." 

"So  'e  threw  'er  out,  eh?" 

"I  don't  know.    Go  yerself  an'  ask  'er." 

"Threw  'er  out,  eh?" 

"Ye'll  know  when  ye  ask  'er." 

"Me?  Me?"  Leyton  stood  two  inches  taller. 
He  slammed  the  bar.  The  glasses  rattled. 

Mrs.  Brisley  touched  her  husband's  arm. 

Leyton  turned  to  them  and  executed  a  reassur- 
ing gesture;  then  he  spoke  again  to  Petwee  in  a 


FUEY  53 

hoarse  whisper:  "Me,  go  to  'er?  Yer  mad!  If  she 
was  lyin'  in  the  gutter  .  .  ." 

Petwee  turned  away  suddenly.  He  had  heard  it 
all  before,  on  that  memorable  night  years  back. 

Leyton  caught  his  arm  and  swung  him  roughly 
around,  "Petwee,  fer  the  love  o'  Jesus  Christ,  tell 
me  the  name  o'  the  man  that  took  'er  from  me." 

Petwee  shook  his  head.    "I  don't  know,  Leyton." 

Leyton  spoke  slowly.  "I'll  find  'im  one  day.  I'll 
find  'im  an'  when  I  do,  I'm  goin'  to  .  .  ." 

Petwee  was  looking  across  his  shoulder  at  some 
one  who  stood  there. 

Leyton  turned  quickly.     "Hello,  Morgan." 

And  Morgan  explained  that  it  was  all  set  for 
Leith ;  and  his  captain  called  for  drinks  for  three ; 
and  when  they  came  Morgan  said:  "Good  health, 
Captain";  and  his  captain  replied:  "Good  health, 
Mr.  Morgan." 


CHAPTER  VI 

N  OAK'S  was  one  of  the  oldest  wharves  in 
Limehouse  and  it  looked  it.  The  Anglo- 
Scottish  Tropical  Navigating  Company  was 
an  old-fashioned  firm.  Thus  Noak's  wharf  was 
dirty,  cobwebby,  smelly  in  summer  time  and  dank 
in  winter.  Folk  around  looked  old  and  grimy ;  and 
only  very  daring,  dirty,  disreputable  cats  visited 
this  wharf,  because  the  rats  flourished  fat  and  full 
of  fight. 

But  our  Lady  Spray  was  clean  and  white.  She 
was  no  chicken.  She  was  a  neat,  spruce  old  lady, 
whose  master  took  good  care  of  her;  not  that  he 
loved  her,  but  a  creature  of  The  Lady  Spray's 
figure  and  temperament  gave  smoother  and  better 
service  when  she  felt  clean  and  fresh. 

She  always  conveyed  in  a  subtle  manner  her 
delicate  boredom  and  alternate  horror  of  Noak's 
wharf.  Her  nose  in  the  air,  she  reminded  one  of 
a  great  lady  in  silks,  slumming  against  her  will. 
When  the  tide  was  out,  she  would  lean  away  side- 
ways, upon  the  mud,  the  personification  of  disdain- 
ful shipdom.  When  the  tide  was  high,  she  would 
tug  restively,  fretfully  at  her  moorings. 

When  the  supreme  sailing  moment  came,  she 
shook  herself  like  a  greyhound,  as  her  sea  laughed 
into  the  mouth  of  the  Thames,  washing  her  white 

54 


FUKY  55 

sides  considerately,  and  whispering  a  swishing, 
breezy  welcome. 

The  sinking  sun  bathed  Lambeth  in  a  celestial 
light;  up  from  Wapping  came  the  gray  mist  of 
evening;  and  with  the  tide  rose  The  Lady  Spray, 
higher  and  higher,  with  increasing  dignity  and  as- 
surance, white  and  beautiful. 

Across  her  decks  washing  fluttered  and  through 
this  Looney  Luke,  seated  for'ard,  looked  up  and 
off  and  then  back  to  a  poem  of  his  immediate 
creation. 

"If  you're  about  to  start  caressin' 

Of  the  girl  whose  lips  you  crave, 
Be  careful  of  your  dressin' 
And  don't  forget  to  shave." 

He  changed  the  words  "about  to"  to  "going  to," 
which  sounded  better. 

He  looked  off  and  up  again  at  the  subject  of  his 
latest  inspiration.  His  blue  transparent  eyes 
opened  wide,  glistening  with  amusing  thoughts. 
He  loved  what  he  saw.  It  whispered  of  youth, 
hope,  love,  and  beauty  now  suddenly  resolved  into 
something  which,  though  still  beautiful,  was 
marred  by  the  shameful,  man-made  habit  of  trying 
to  be  different  from  what  you  are,  the  habit  of 
destroying  your  natural  free  line  to  look  your  best 
and  thus,  often,  succeeding  only  in  looking  your 
worst. 

The  Boy  of  Looney  Luke's  affection  was  rough- 
haired,  open-throated,  with  a  superb  litheness  of 


56  FURY 

the  belt-line,  and  now  he  watched  him  as,  before 
a  bit  of  broken  mirror,  he  put  the  final  touches  to 
his  shore  toilette.  Presently  he  stood  back,  the 
curl,  a  grand  affair,  carefully  tongued  and  greased, 
rolling  down  like  a  bursting  wave,  broke  just  un- 
derneath the  long  peak  of  a  checked  cap.  Round 
his  throat,  twice  round,  a  red  and  white  kerchief, 
just  too  tight,  swelled  the  blue-brown,  clean-shaved 
neck  and  chin  enough  to  destroy  the  pleasant, 
strong  line.  A  double-breasted  suit  of  blue  serge, 
with  nice,  spreading,  bell-bottomed  trousers,  black 
highly  polished  shoes,  a  heavy  watch  chain  hang- 
ing from  his  buttonhole  and  disappearing  into  the 
outside  breast  pocket,  whence  a  new  packet  of 
Player's  Navy  Cut  cigarettes  peeped  out  dressily, 
were  the  externals. 

Boy  sighed.  It  was  well.  He  was  satisfied.  The 
two  hours'  work  upon  himself  had  repaid  him.  He 
had  bathed  with  Sunlight  soap  in  fresh  water.  He 
glanced  at  his  nails  and  opened  the  small  blade 
of  his  knife. 

He  heard  the  distant,  muffled  booming  of  Big 
Ben,  the  clock  of  Parliament,  strike  the  hour. 

Promptly  as  the  echo  of  the  last  throbbing  boom 
had  died  away,  some  one  appeared  to  Boy — a 
plump,  short  she-person,  who  appeared  to  be 
dressed  for  some  unusual  occasion.  The  climb  up 
the  steep  narrow  gang-plank  from  the  wharf  had 
fluttered  her  somewhat  and  she  gasped  a  breathless 
question. 

"He's  over  there  forward,  your  lover  is,  Marian, 


FURY  57 

a-waitin'  for  ye."  Boy  towered  over  her,  impres- 
sively, and  gestured  with  great  dignity  in  the  di- 
rection of  Looney  Luke.  "  'Ow's  things?" 

"Nicely,  an'  the  same  to  you,  Mr.  Boy." 

So  Marian,  still  fluttering,  impatiently  passed 
on,  gazing  forward  and  tripping  over  sundry 
things  until  she  came  to  her  Luke,  who  had  risen 
to  meet  her. 

Boy  watched  them  embrace,  disengage  and  em- 
brace again.  He  saw  Luke  take  from  under  his 
coat  two  shimmering  paradise  feathers  and  he 
heard  the  shrill  scream  of  delight  from  Marian. 

"Luke,  Luke!    >Ow  could  ye?    Oh,  Luke!" 

Boy  mused.  How  alike  all  love  was !  Soon  he'd 
kiss  his  girl  like  that  and  he'd  kiss  her  twice  like 
that,  and  perhaps  more;  and  he'd  brought  some- 
thing for  his  Min,  too.  He  turned  at  a  step  behind 
him. 

"  'Ullo,  Clancey !    Did  ye  tell  Min  I'd  be  down?" 

"The  first  mate's  been  down  there  sittin'  with 
'er.  'E  took  'er  a  diamont  comb." 

"Who  said  so?" 

"I  seen  'im  go  in  and  the  boys  were  talking  of 
the  comb  'e  bought  'er."  Clancey  lowered  his 
voice.  "There  was  diamonts  in  it  an'  all." 

"Diamonts,  me  eye!" 

So  Morgan  had  been  down.  Mrs.  Brent  was 
working  with  him ;  Min  had  said  so,  before.  Damn 
that  swine!  What  was  he  after,  anyway?  He 
knew  she  was  Boy's  girl. 

The  handkerchief  tightened  round  his  neck. 


58  FUEY 

Then  he  spoke  with  breezy  confidence.  Why  let 
a  hand  see  the  news  had  hit  him?  They  all  knew 
— every  one  knew,  but  Dog,  that  Min  was  his. 

"I  don't  care  if  he  gave  'er  the  Kaiser's  gold 
tooth.  Wait  till  ye  pipe  what  I  got  for  'er."  And, 
smiling,  he  turned  below. 

Clancey  walked  forward  to  where  Looney  Luke 
was  arranging  the  two  beautiful  feathers  in  Ma- 
rian's hat. 

"'Ello,  Clancey!  Don't  this  take  the  cake? 
Take  a  look!"  And  Marian  stepped  back  as 
Madame  Pompadour  once  did. 

Clancey  paused,  impressed.  "It's  very  Frenchy, 
I  will  say."  Then  with  a  tipsy  step  he  stood  beside 
Luke  and  spoke  dramatically.  "Luke,  me  old 
sport,  it  is  such  men  as  ye  what  makes  England 
what  she  is  to-day." 

Luke  glanced  up  proudly  as  Clancey  continued 
with  a  gesture  toward  Marian,  "Blimey,  Luke,  ye 
should  be  proud  if  I  do  say  so." 

Luke  smiled  again.  He  was  proud.  His  eyes 
dimmed  gratefully.  His  twisted  features  almost 
straightened.  And  Clancey,  excusing  it  politely 
to  the  girl,  led  him  aside. 

"'E's  gone  fer  that  chicken  now,  Boy  'as. 
Ye'd  better  be  there,  Luke,  an'  talk  Boy  up  a  bit. 
Ye've  got  the  knack.  'Ere  'e  is  now." 

And  they  looked  up  together  as  Boy  emerged 
from  the  companionway  with  a  covered  cage  in 
his  hand.  He  laughed  gayly  and  beckoned  them. 


FURY  59 

"What  ho  she  bumps!  'Ere's  a  present  what 
lives!" 

Both  men  drew  near  in  silence,  waiting. 

With  a  flourish  Boy  flicked  the  cover  from  the 
cage  and  looked.  "Come  on,  now,  speak  yer  line 
for  the  gentlemen." 

No  answer  came;  he  looked  again,  and  then  his 
lips  trembled  as  dumbly  he  gazed  at  a  sticky  mass 
of  blood  and  feathers,  red  and  green.  .  .  .  Noah 
was  dead! 

Boy's  teeth  came  together.  With  a  spasmodic 
movement  of  his  body  he  wildly  flung  the  cage  and 
its  tragic  contents  out,  out  to  a  place  where  the 
mud  and  river  met. 

"Blast  'is  dirty  soul,  I'll  kill  'im  fer  that!" 

He  knew  who  had  done  it;  of  course  he  knew; 
and  the  others  knew,  that  Morgan  had  "had  an 
accident"  with  Noah's  cage. 

Clancey,  who  had  seen  the  whole  thing  the  day 
before,  had  told  Luke  how  as  Morgan  passed,  the 
parrot  had  called,  "Minnie,  I  love  ye,"  and  how 
Morgan  had  turned,  lifted  the  cage  and  gone  away, 
to  return  a  few  moments  later  with  the  same  cage, 
still  covered,  and  a  curious  smile  upon  his  face. 

Clancey  had  wanted  to  tell  Boy  immediately 
after  the  black  thing  had  happened,  but  Luke  had 
counseled  otherwise,  with  "Let  him  find  it."  And 
Luke  knew  best — yes,  Luke  always  knew. 

Now,  without  a  word,  Boy  walked  to  the  rail,  his 
head  averted  from  them,  and  Clancey  searched 


60  FURY 

Luke's  face.  He  wanted  to  ask  what  they  should 
do.  But  Luke  was  looking  away.  .  .  . 

Peeping  over  the  top  of  the  hatch  from  behind, 
two  paradise  feathers  fluttered  gayly  in  the  wind. 
Marian,  with  her  back  to  them,  was  waiting  for 
her  lover  to  return. 

He  certainly  was  a  "one,"  this  Luke!  Clancey 
with  amusement  watched  him  as  he  stealthily 
crept  forward  toward  the  waving  feathers,  and 
smiled  as  a  moment  later  he  returned  with  them, 
glancing  back  toward  the  hat  where  now  no 
feathered  evidence  of  love  waved. 

Boy  turned  at  Looney  Luke's  step  behind  him, 
and  gazed  at  the  proffered  feathers. 

"These  have  filled  their  purpose,  Boy,"  said 
Luke.  "It  ain't  what  ye  give  a  woman  what  gives 
'er  joy — it's  the  fact  that  ye  give  it." 

Boy,  puzzled,  was  about  to  speak — but  then, 
Looney  Luke  was  always  right.  No  one  ever  ques- 
tioned the  wisdom  of  Looney  Luke.  So  Boy  took 
the  feathers,  almost  eagerly,  and  stuffed  them 
under  his  coat. 

"When  I've  given  them  to  Min,  and  she's  had  'er 
thrill,  I'll  pinch  'em  back  for  yer,  Luke,"  he  said. 
But  Luke  had  gone. 

Clancey  stole  after  Luke  and  heard  a  slight 
scream,  and  a  voice  asking,  naturally,  "Where's 
yer  feathers,  Marian?" 

Marian's  hands  clapped  suddenly  to  her  hat. 

"Blimey,  Luke,  they  must  'ave  blowed  away." 

"Blowed  away?"    Luke's  voice  rose  in  surprise. 


FURY  61 

"Oh,  Luke,  can  yer  find  it  in  yer  'eart  to  fergive 
me?" 

And,  oh,  what  a  sweet  moment  for  Luke  to  hold 
her  plump  body  to  him,  and  whisper  he  would 
always  forgive  her  whatever  she  did,  and  feel  her 
thrill  and  quiver  at  his  words!  And  then  again, 
looking  over  her  shoulder,  he  saw  Boy  dancing 
gayly  down  the  gangplank,  and  he  thrilled  to  his 
soul.  Luke  knew  the  ecstasy,  the  glowing  joy  of 
making  some  one  happy — every  one  happy.  Looney 
Luke,  at  moments,  was  very  close  to  God. 

Boy  was  happy.  His  sky  had  cleared.  The  re- 
action from  Noah's  death  and  his  rage,  and  the 
touching  gift  from  Luke,  had  set  him  tingling. 
His  head  was  whirling.  He  wanted  to  sing 
aloud. 

He  was  going  to  see  Min,  and,  whistling  gayly, 
he  stepped  upon  the  quay.  Strangely  enough,  a 
lot  of  the  crew  seemed  to  be  standing  around  and 
two  or  three  of  them,  as  they  saw  him,  started 
down  from  Pea's  Lane.  Funny;  what  was  the 
idea?  And  then  Mr.  Hop  stood  suddenly  before 
him: 

"All  aboard !  We  get  out  for  Leith  on  the  tide. 
Captain's  orders." 

"Eh?"  Boy  gasped. 

"That's  all.     There  ain't  no  'eh.'  " 

Mr.  Hop  walked  on  and  Boy  caught  his  arm. 
The  act  was  unnatural.  He  seldom  spoke  to  Mr. 
Hop,  let  alone  touched  him.  Mr.  Hop  was  hand 
in  glove  with  Morgan.  He  had  helped  to  bring 


62  FURY 

Boy  into  the  world — yes ;  but  there  had  never  been 
any  love  lost  between  them. 

"I  got  'arf  an  hour,  ain't  I?" 

"I  told  ye  the  orders.  Take  'arf  a  year.  It 
wouldn't  make  no  difference  to  nobody." 

And  Boy  followed  the  retreating  figure  upon  the 
deck,  where  many  of  the  crew  stood  around,  some 
tight,  some  sober,  but  all  disgruntled  at  the  change 
of  orders. 

Mr.  Hop  bustled  past  them  importantly,  while 
Boy  stood  irresolute. 

Something  was  working  against  him — against 
him  and  Min.  What  was  it?  First,  Morgan's 
priority  off  the  ship  as  first  mate,  then  Noah,  the 
parrot,  dead,  and  now  .  .  . 

And  Min  would  be  waiting  at  Lockhart's  at  this 
very  moment.  It  was  ten  past  seven. 

His  body  shook  and  then  the  father,  the  Dog 
Leyton  in  him,  sprang  suddenly  out  of  his  eyes. 
Passionately  throwing  his  cap  to  the  deck  he 
trampled  on  it;  and  one  of  the  hands  laughed. 

Boy's  fists  clenched.  .  .  .  "What  the  hell  are  ye 
laughin'  at?  You!  You,  I  mean!" 

"Can't  I  laugh?" 

"No;  you  can't  laugh  at  me,  ye  dirty — !" 

A  quick  movement  forward;  room  made  for 
him ;  the  scoffer,  still  and  sullen ;  Boy,  seeing  red, 
raised  his  fist. 

"My  'ands  ain't  up.  I  ain't  fightin'  ye,"  the 
sailor  said,  sullenly. 

He  did  not  fight — this  man,  and  there  are  such 


FURY  63 

men.  Their  chins  recede  a  little  and  their  ears 
stick  out.  His  did. 

"Why  won't  ye  fight?" 

Dog  Leyton,  himself,  might  have  been  speaking. 
There  was  the  same  phlegm  in  the  voice. 

And  then  Luke's  voice  broke  in  with:  "Because 
ye're  an  officer  of  the  ship.  That's  why  he  won't." 

A  pause.  A  glance  at  Luke's  face.  A  sense  of 
the  utter  futility  of  it  all ;  and  miserable,  very  near 
to  tears,  Boy  pushed  his  way  through  the  knot  of 
beer-breathed  onlookers  and  went  to  the  side  to 
look  down  at  nothing,  towards  the  misty  quay. 

Unutterably  lonely,  Boy  could  not  have  ex- 
pressed it  in  that  way.  His  heart  throbbed 
against  his  ribs.  His  throat  ached.  He  felt  sick. 
His  hands  trembled  and  the  immeasurable  dis- 
tance between  himself  and  all  the  others  became 
tragically  plain. 

He  suffered  inwardly ;  anguish  tore  at  something 
within  him  and  made  him  ill.  .  .  . 

A  sailor  just  curses  at  such  things  and  shrugs 
his  shoulders. 

Why  not?  He  is  attuned  to  the  inevitable,  a 
disciple  of  fate. 

But  such  a  mental  attitude  was  impossible  to 
Boy.  His  shoulders  would  not  shrug. 

The  militant  surging  within  him,  restrained, 
made  him  want  to  scream.  It  made  him  want  to 
roll  in  the  black  mud  below.  It  made  him  want 
to  slash  his  throat.  It  made  him  want  to  ... 

It  was  Morgan — Morgan — Morgan!   that  long- 


64  FURY 

legged,  sinister,  haunting,  hating  thing,  that 
dogged  him!  It  was  'im — 'im — 'im — 

Boy's  red  hands  gripped  the  rail  at  the  side,  but 
it  was  not  a  rail  they  gripped — it  was  Morgan's 
throat.  He  had  Morgan  by  the  throat  and  Morgan 
was  gasping  and  choking.  His  eyes  were  rolling. 
Red  hands  tore  at  his  in  frenzy.  Morgan's  eyes 
were  glazing,  turned  up  at  him.  Morgan  was 
dying  .  .  .  going  out  .  .  .  going  out  .  .  . 

"Ooo-oo!    Oo-oo!  Darlin'!" 

What  was  that? 

"Dar-1-i-n!"  came  up  across  the  mud  in  a  shrill 
crescendo,  and  a  distant  siren,  like  a  beautiful, 
vague  obligate  swept  up  as  an  accompaniment. 

Through  the  mist  Boy  saw  Min,  his  Min,  waving 
her  hand,  hatless,  breathless,  like  a  will-o'-the-wisp 
blown  from  a  summer  field  of  corn  onto  Noak's 
Wharf. 

Boy,  craned  over  the  side,  shouted:  "Can't  get 
off.  We're  goin'  out." 

And  he  saw  Min's  arms  come  out  entreatingly, 
a  misty,  beckoning  Eve.  A  forefinger  worked  back- 
wards and  forwards  at  the  end  of  a  thin,  out- 
stretched 'arm. 

Boy  was  still.  He  might  have  been  about  to 
leap  the  intervening  space,  so  tense  was  his  body, 
and  Luke's  voice  spoke  softly  beside  him : 

"A  month  without  a  kiss;  a  sin  to  miss!" 

He  turned  and  others  of  the  crew  stood  near, 
interested.  "G'wan,  mate,  the  lady's  callin' 

ye." 


FUEY  65 

"Ah,  his  papa'd  whip  'im !" 

"Well,  he'd  die  fer  a  lady,  wouldn't  Je?" 

And  then  Boy's  voice,  quick,  excited :  "Who're  ye 
kiddin'?  I  ain't  no  baby,  see,  see?" 

"Oo-oo!  Oo-oo!  Boy-ee!"  the  delicious  music 
crept  up  faintly. 

Boy  turned  and  Min  watched  him  come,  hand 
over  hand  down  the  moorings.  A  swing,  a  jump 
and  Boy,  hatless,  radiant,  beautiful,  stood  beside 
her. 

Before  the  world  she  went  into  his  arms  and 
rested  there. 

Then  the  feathers  from  under  his  coat  ...  a 
shrill  yell  of  delight  and  two  voices  speaking  at 
once  .  .  .  another  kiss  .  .  .  Min's  face  red  and 
Boy's  face  white. 

A  moment's  pause  and  a  question  from  him. 

Her  voice  lowered  to  answer  it.  "I'm  busted 
down  at  The  Rest.  I'm  scared  to  go  back.  It  was 
Morgan.  He  tried  to  rush  me,  -and  I  saw  red  and 
sloshed  'im,  and  ...  he  ..." 

At  that  moment  three  men  emerged  from  The 
Three  Jolly  Sailors,  one  drunk  and  two  sober. 

One  of  the  sober  pair,  bidding  farewell  to  the 
one  who  was  drunk,  lowered  his  voice  to  say: 

"Don't  forget  what  I've  been  sayin',  Captain." 

Without  answer  the  one  who  was  drunk  turned, 
lurching  toward  the  other  sober  man,  a  tall  man, 
who  had  walked  a  pace  forward.  Together  they 
passed  down  towards  Noak's. 

Min  had  finished  speaking  and  was  waiting  be- 


66  FURY 

cause  Boy  did  not  immediately  answer.     He  was 
thinking  hard. 

Here  stood  before  him  the  one  thing  he  lived 
for.  The  sea?  Yes,  he  loved  the  sea ;  but  she  was 
and  always  would  be  there.  Nobody  could  bash 
her  about,  grab,  maul  and  curse  her  and  make  her 
cry  for  want  of  somebody  to  take  care  of  her.  He 
could  always  get  the  sea. 

And  then  there  was  The  Spray — yes,  but  even 
she  carried  for  him  a  cargo  of  terrible  memories, 
and  lately  things  had  been  getting  worse  .  .  .  and 
there  was  Morgan! 

After  this,  any  day,  any  hour,  something  might 
rise  up  in  Boy  against  his  better  sense  and  blind 
him  .  .  .  and  then  he  would  be  hanged  for  Mor- 
gan's death. 

And  Dog  was  getting  worse,  drinking  more,  curs- 
ing more.  Those  fits  were  coming  oftener. 

Really  except  Luke  there  wasn't  any  one  aboard 
The  Spray  he  cared  to  even  talk  to  much.  Clancey 
was  all  right — yes,  there  was  Clancey.  Clancey 
liked  him  all  right.  But  what  did  he  ever  say 
outside  dirty  stories  and  coarse  wit?  He  was 
funny  enough,  sometimes,  but  .  .  . 

Boy's  heart  was  longing  for  something.  It  al- 
ways had  longed.  He  had  used  to  think  it  was 
for  his  mother,  that  whispering  shadow,  that 
nobody  would  tell  him  anything  about;  but  lately, 
that  last  trip  or  two,  yes,  since  last  Christmas,  he 
had  known  that  it  was  for  Min  he  had  been 
longing. 


FURY  67 

He  felt  differently  when  he  thought  about  her. 
He  had  told  the  sea  about  her  at  night,  and  the 
sea  had  sighed  and  seemed  to  say  she  wished  that 
she  was  human ;  but  then  the  sea  was  in  love  with 
her  sun,  and  they  met  and  kissed  every  morning 
and  every  night,  and  even  when  you  couldn't  see 
them  at  it,  they  did  it  behind  the  storms,  with, 
afterwards,  the  sea  kicking  up  her  legs,  as  much 
as  to  say,  "Ain't  ye  mad,  ye  can't  see?" 

Boy  wanted  his  Min,  at  night  and  in  the  morn- 
ing, in  the  open  and  behind  the  storm.  What  was 
the  use  of  hanging  about?  Life  was  too  short  to 
wait  for  anything.  Luke  had  said  that  many  a 
time,  and  who  knew  anything  if  Luke  didn't? 

Then  there  was  the  menace  to  Min  down  there 
at  The  Eest;  the  kind  of  thing  Min  had  just  told 
him  about. 

And  then  there  was  dad,  old  Dog.  Boy's  love 
for  his  father  was  hanging  on  a  thread.  He  just 
didn't  know  about  him;  and  then  his  hand  went 
up  to  the  spot  where  he  had  only  taken  the  plaster 
off  that  afternoon,  while  dressing;  the  cut  still  was 
apparent  to  his  fingers.  It  was  a  pretty  strong 
thread,  though,  that  love  was  hanging  on.  Boy's 
eyes  moistened  as  he  remembered  how  Dog  had 
put  that  plaster  on. 

Oh,  God,  what  a  mix-up  it  all  was !  What's  the 
use  of  standin'  still  and  thinkin'?  Ye  can't  do 
nothin'  whatever  ye  do.  Other  people  had  brains 
to  do  things,  words  to  say  and  plans  to  make. 
What  .  .? 


68  FUKY 

"A  penny  for  'em."  Min  was  looking  up  at 
Mm,  smilingly.  "There  ye  go  off  again  in  one  of 
them  bloomin'  trances.  Just  fancy  doin'  that 
when  I'm  'ere!" 

"They're  worth  more'n  a  penny,  Min,"  and  sud- 
denly it  was  a  man  who  spoke,  a  full  grown  man, 
with  a  steady,  hard  voice,  and  a  chin  stuck  out 
underneath  it. 

"I'm  gonna  jump  the  ship  an'  splice  ye!" 

A  gasp  from  Min. 

He  wasn't  talking  English;  he  was  talking 
Latin  or  something.  No  English  words  ever 
sounded  as  good  as  that.  She  just  watched.  Boy 
was  fumbling  with  something  at  a  belt,  underneath 
his  waistcoat. 

Boy  drew  out  a  flat  packet  of  bank  notes.  "Five, 
ten,  fifteen,  and  there's  eighteen!"  Three  five 
pound  notes,  three  single  pounds,  pressed  into 
Min's  empty  hand,  the  one  that  didn't  hold  the 
feathers;  and  Min  started  off  on  a  queer  journey 
in  her  mind,  off  to  Wonderland  or  some  place 
where  you  go  when  it's  all  too  good  to  be  true  and 
you  don't  know  what  it's  all  about. 

Boy  began  speaking,  quickly,  and  Min  listened 
to  his  instructions,  thought  out,  logical  and  won- 
derful, on  the  spur  of  the  moment. 

Yes,  what  she'd  told  him  about  Morgan  to-day 
had  done  it  with  him,  as  far  as  he  was  concerned. 
That  is,  they  were  taking  the  great  plunge — him 
and  her.  He  was  going  to  jump  the  ship! 

Min's  heart  fluttered  and  bumped  and  leapt  and 


FUEY  69 

fell  downstairs.  It  wasn't  true — but  it  was  true! 
Here  was  eighteen  quid  getting  damp  in  her  hand 
to  back  it  up ! 

She  was  to  get  up  to  Leith  by  train — on  a  real 
train,  a  flyer.  You  start  when  people  are  going  to 
bed  and  travel  all  night.  None  of  your  just-in- 
and-out  business,  and  she'd  have  a  new  hat  to  go 
in,  and  a  fish  supper  before  she  started,  and  one 
of  them  new  leather  bags  what  they  sold  in  the 
Commercial  Eoad. 

And  the  ring — she  was  to  ask  the  man  in  the 
shop  for  it,  and  pay  for  it  and  let  him  wrap  it  up 
without  her  seeing  it,  and  then  go  off  up  to  Leith, 
dashing  through  the  night,  looking  out  of  the  win- 
dow at  nothing,  because  it  was  dark;  and  when 
she  got  there,  she  was  going  to  wait  for  him.  She 
was  going  to  Leith  and  to  Boy! 

Yes,  she  was  to  go  there  to  The  Thistle  (it  was 
just  off  the  docks,  he  told  her)  and  take  a  room 
— and  wait  for  him. 

And  when  The  Spray  got  into  Leith  he  was 
going  to  jump  the  ship  and  nothing  was  going  to 
stop  him,  he  told  her, — nothing!  He  wasn't  a  kid 
no  longer  .  .  .  and  he'd  get  another  ship,  or  work, 
or  ... 

Anyway,  they'd  get  spliced  before  they'd  do  any- 
thing, and  .  .  .  and  .  .  . 

Oh,  he  was  talking  so  fast  and  his  face  had  gone 
red — and  they'd  be  spliced,  man  and  woman,  him 
and  her,  and  he'd  kiss  her  all  day  and  all  night 
and  they'd  get  up  just  to  go  to  the  movies,  and 


70  FURY 

they  "could  tell  the  blinkin'  world  to  go  to  'ell, 
they  could  an'  all,"  and  her  arms  would  be  round 
him  every  minute  and  she'd  never  let  him  go — 
never,  never,  never! 

Her  arms  were  around  him  now,  straining  with 
excitement.  She  was  laughing  and  crying.  She 
couldn't  speak,  and  he  was  pressing  hot  lips  upon 
her  cheek  and  neck,  and  her  arms  were  round  him, 
and  in  one  of  her  hands  the  feathers  waved  down 
his  back,  gallantly,  joyously,  a  symbol  of  their 
pageantry.  .  .  . 

And  then  a  scream  and  some  one  snatched  those 
feathers,  and  Min  and  Boy  swept  apart  as  Marian, 
crimson-cheeked,  pulled  back  and  swung  at  her: 

"You  bloody  thief!" 

And  then  Min  at  her  like  a  streak,  hair,  hats  and 
flying  heels,  and  Boy,  bewildered,  shouting,  tug- 
ging, at  two  bodies,  one  plump  and  one  thin,  and 
the  crew  laughing,  cheering  above.  The  bank 
notes,  the  eighteen  quid,  fell  on  the  ground  and 
blew  towards  the  mud  with  Boy  after  them;  the 
crew  cheering  again. 

Marian  was  down  and  five  of  the  crew  were  hold- 
ing Looney  Luke  back,  above. 

Then  Boy  into  the  scene  again,  his  arms  about 
Min,  where  they  should  be,  but  this  time  pulling, 
entreating  a  Min  who  would  not  rise — no,  not  even 
for  him.  "This  cow  had  stole  her  present — his 
present,  and  .  .  ." 

A  shout,  a  rough  hand  upon  Boy's  collar,  a  chok- 
ing sensation  in  his  throat.  He  was  lifted  and 


FUKY  71 

flying  through  the  air.  He  hit  some  kegs  and  lay 
still,  and  Dog  Leyton,  standing  over  him,  watched 
blear-eyed,  as  Boy  struggled  to  his  feet. 

"Get  aboard!" 

Boy  looked  off  to  where  his  father  pointed,  and 
then  down  quickly  at  his  closed  fist,  in  which  were 
hidden  eighteen  quid;  and  something  more  was 
hidden  in  that  fist — the  first  spark  of  revolt 
sweated  through  its  pores.  He  wasn't  ready  to 
get  aboard,  just  for  a  moment!  He  gazed  at  his 
father  and  at  his  father's  arm,  still  pointing,  wob- 
bling, to  The  Lady  Spray.  His  eyes  flashed  a  mo- 
mentary defiance. 

Morgan  drew  near  and  smiled,  and  Boy's  lips 
opened  to  speak  words  that  would  end  it. 

But  how  could  he?  Min  dashed  in,  mounted  on 
her  anger  in  full  charge,  a  dragoon,  fearless,  gal- 
lant, glorious !  She  pulled  up  quickly.  Her  anger 
reined  upon  its  haunches. 

"It  wasn't  Boy's  fault,  Captain  Leyton.  Ye  can 
blame  me!" 

"You?  Get  away!  I  don't  want  no  dock  sluts 
around  my  son  or  my  ship!  Keep  off!  .  .  ." 

A  tiny  fist  drove  clean  and  straight  and  hit  his 
mouth,  and  a  broken,  pointed  boot  kicked  against 
his  shin,  and  Min,  wild-eyed,  screaming  cursing 
words  that  Boy  never  had  dreamed  she  knew, 
stopped  only  when  Marian  melted  enough  to  help 
Boy  drag  his  panting  little  girl  to  a  sitting  posi- 
tion upon  a  keg  and  hold  her  there  by  force.  For 
some  reason  Dog  Leyton  turned  away. 


72  FURY 

Glancing  after  him,  Boy  hesitated. 

Now  was  the  time!     Should  he  jump  now? 

There  was  a  list  in  Dog  Leyton's  gait.  He  was 
either  drunk  or  sick;  he  was  drunk.  Boy  had 
caught  his  breath. 

Wisdom  whispered  wisely,  "Leith.  You  will 
wait  till  Leith.  You  don't  jump  ship  at  sailing 
time  if  you're  a  sailor." 

And  there  was  Luke.  Luke  had  got  to  bless  this 
here  thing — this  splicin'  of  him  and  Min  at  Leith; 
and  dropping  the  bank  notes  in  Min's  lap,  he  bent 
quickly  and  kissed  her  head. 

"See  ye  in  Leith.     Don't  fail  now,  Min." 

He  turned  towards  the  ship,  strongly,  the  delib- 
erate act  of  a  man  of  judgment  and  resource,  a 
second  mate  of  subtlety  and  purpose,  a  gentleman 
who  had  evolved  a  plan  for  his  advantage  and  ad- 
vancement, and  was  carrying  it  out  in  a  direct 
fashion,  the  proper  way. 

All  this  was  apparent  in  the  gait  of  the  second 
mate  as  he  stepped  towards  his  ship. 

While  Marian  hurried  the  other  way,  one  hand 
dabbing  a  fat  lip  and  the  other  shaking  out  her 
feathers,  Min  looked  up  dazed. 

She  should  have  fainted.  She  hadn't  eaten 
anything  because  of  the  excitement  of  Boy's 
coming  and  because  she  was  saving  plenty  of 
room  to  fill  up  in  Lockhart's;  but  she  didn't 
faint. 

She  looked  up  into  the  smiling  eyes  of  Morgan, 
bending  over  her. 


FURY  73 

"What  a  temper!  Blimey,  ye're  hot,  ye  are!" 
His  hand  fell  on  her  shoulder. 

She  rose  and  shook  him  off.  "Hands  off,  smarty, 
me  lad,  I'm  an  engaged  woman,  I  am!  I'm  Mr. 
Boy  Leyton's  financy,  and  we're  splicin'  in  Leith. 
Put  that  in  yer  smoke  an'  pipe  it!" 

And  with  a  sound  that  was  almost  a  laugh,  the 
little  will-o'-the-wisp,  all  ruffled,  blew  away  as 
suddenly  as  she  had  come,  with  a  backward  glance 
at  The  Lady  Spray. 

There,  in  the  cabin,  Boy  was  taking  off  his  coat. 
Hearing  his  father  enter  behind  him  he  did  not 
turn.  He  untied  his  neckerchief  and  laid  it  over 
the  coat  as  he  heard  Dog  Leyton  speak. 

"I'd  give  a  trip's  pay  to  see  some  fight  in  you !" 

Boy  turned  to  see  his  father  looking  at  him,  with 
genuine  contempt  upon  his  face.  Dog  was  drunk. 
Boy  knew  his  father.  Better  say  nothing  and  get 
out. 

He  moved  to  do  so  and  as  he  passed,  Dog  swung 
at  his  ear. 

Boy  stopped  and  regarded  his  father,  steadily. 
It  was  a  moment  before  he  spoke.  Never  before 
had  he  felt  so  calm,  so  confident.  Never  had  he 
felt  so  much  at  his  ease  before  his  father.  The 
reaction  of  the  moment  of  defiance  upon  the  quay 
seemed  still  upon  him. 

"Does  a  real  man  hit  his  own  father?" 

The  question  was  logical.  Boy  waited  for  an 
answer. 

Dog  was  surprised.     Boy  at  least  had  precipi- 


T4  FURY 

tated  something,  even  though  it  was  only  a  ques- 
tion, and  he  made  haste  to  answer  it  with  a  step 
forward.  He,  too,  was  under  the  reaction  of  an 
emotion  of  that  afternoon,  and  that  reaction 
colored  his  answer  vividly. 

"A  real  man  kills  them  what  slurs  his  women!" 
The  words  were  bitten  out. 

Boy  regarded  him  steadily.  It  was  hopeless. 
There  before  him  trembled  a  drunken,  misguided 
old  man,  who  so  obviously  was  suffering  beneath 
all  he  said  and  did,  that  Boy's  heart  went  to  him 
in  spite  of  everything.  All  his  love  swelled  within 
him  as  he  said,  simply: 

"But  I  know  ye,  Father.  Ye  don't  mean  yer 
slurs.  It's  just  yer  hate  o'  women." 

At  this,  for  some  strange  reason,  Dog  Leyton 
smiled,  a  curious,  vague,  irritating  smile.  His  lips 
curled  their  contempt.  He  fumbled  for  something 
terrible  to  say. 

Boy  watched  him  grope.  He  watched  him 
swaying  between  two  emotions  for  in  that  moment 
when  he  had  smiled,  Boy  had  seen  a  hole  gape  open 
in  his  armor — something  had  happened — something 
had  happened  that  afternoon! 

There  had  been  a  picture  in  that  smile  that 
whiskey  never  could  have  painted. 

Boy  balanced  between  two  emotions,  defiance 
and  love,  and  the  scale  jammed  suddenly  down  as 
all  his  pent-up  restraint  broke — in  a  flood  of  tears 
that  he  could  not  hold,  that  rushed  to  his  eyes, 
blinding  him,  as  helplessly,  almost  inarticulately, 


FURY  75 

he  fought  to  express  the  gorgeous  truth  within  him. 

"Ye' re  my  father.  Ye  kin  beat  me;  ye  kin  croak 
me,  'cause  ye're  my  father."  His  voice  choked. 
"Ye're  my  own  father.  See?  .  .  .  See?" 

His  hands  went  out  and  his  two  feet  stamped 
the  ground,  helplessly,  all  control  gone.  He  tried 
to  stop  speaking  and  could  not.  The  still  face 
before  him  seemed  every  shape  and  color,  distorted, 
weird,  distant,  and  his  hands  beat  the  old  man's 
chest  helplessly,  as  though  seeking  to  beat  open 
an  old  bolted  door  with  rust  upon  its  hinges. 

"Ye're  me  father,  see?    And  I  know  ye,  see?" 

Tears  coursed  down  his  face.  His  hands  dropped 
by  his  sides,  and  his  head  fell  upon  his  father's 
chest. 

His  father  looked  down  at  him,  wonderingly, 
amazed.  He  did  not  understand.  Just  a  kid, 
blubbering. 

Yet,  somewhere  in  the  region  of  Dog  Leyton's 
heart,  a  whisper  breathed  that  something  bigger 
than  a  blubbering  boy  was  whispering  truth  to  a 
truth-starved  soul. 

When  he  looked  down  again,  Boy  had  gone,  and 
Dog's  face,  which  had  been  hard,  relaxed.  Then 
very  suddenly  and  strangely,  an  unexpected  thing 
happened.  A  tear  appeared  in  one  of  his  eyes  and 
glistening,  swayed,  as  if  ready  to  drop. 

A  moment  later  it  dashed  to  the  ground  as  the 
tiny  cabin  shook. 

The  Lady  Spray,  unleashed,  had  turned  her  head 
impatiently  to  sea. 


"God's  maddest  dancing  daughter  she, 

The  one  what  every  sailor  fears, 
The  icy,  love-crossed,  mad  North  Sea; 
To  me  she's  just  'The  Sea  o'  Tears.' " 
— LOONEY  LUKE'S  POEMS 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  North  Sea  is  a  peerless  creature  of  pas- 
sion, yet  a  daughter  of  ice,  her  fury  unceas- 
ing, foam-capped,  shrieking,  cold,  eternal. 

Your  warm-blooded,  tropical  sea  has  her  petu- 
lant moments  of  temper,  but  then  she  rests.  The 
North  Sea  never  rests. 

Brief  rays  of  sun  steal  fleeting  kisses  from  her, 
only  to  hide  immediately  behind  gray  clouds,  as 
if  afraid.  She  will  not  flirt,  this  sea;  love  is  not 
for  her! 

God  loves  this  daughter  as  He  loves  all  that  He 
has  made,  but  even  He  knows  the  uselessness  of 
chiding  her — she  is  a  spinster,  barren,  sterile, 
cruel. 

Perhaps  back,  back  in  the  great  silence,  love 
crossed  her.  No  one  knows. 

But  since  then,  even  though  this  be  true,  sailors 
during  centuries  have  cursed  her,  and  she  has  torn 
their  tiny,  warm  bodies  from  leaping  decks  and 
crushed  them  to  her  frozen  breast,  later  to  cast 
them  up,  swollen  and  unlovely,  upon  rugged 
shores,  to  fling  them  contemptuously  upon  frown- 
ing rocks,  in  grim,  unanswerable  challenge  to 
puny,  conceited,  futile  man. 

The  battles  of  England  have  raged  for  centuries 
upon  her  bosom,  and,  if  deep  in  her  angry  soul  a 

79 


80  FUKY 

faint  spark  of  tenderness  has  ever  flickered,  per- 
haps, only  perhaps,  it  has  been  for  this  grand  old 
lady  of  another  species,  this  wrinkled  island,  rich, 
kindly,  powerful  among  all  nations,  most  defiant 
of  the  dominating  flood. 

The  Old  Lady  of  the  Land  has  now  caught  her 
breath,  pulled  up  her  shades  and  in  the  warming 
glow  begins  again  to  think  a  little  hazily  of  God, 
preparing  for  a  new  forgetfulness  of  Him  to  whom 
a  short  time  ago  she  prayed  diligently.  Again  she 
rouges  her  wrinkled  cheeks,  sends  for  the  musi- 
cians to  play  and  decks  herself  with  gauds,  while 
some  among  her  children  still  are  piling  wreaths 
around  the  Cenotaph  and  others  drop  flowers  upon 
the  restless  bosom  of  the  Sea  which  claimed  so 
many  of  her  gallant  mariners.  And  all  this 
amuses  the  grim  Sea. 

Yet  some  staunch  sinews  of  tradition  still  cling 
together  in  spite  of  an  almost  intolerable  strain; 
some  still  believe  that  a  good  King  rides  beside  a 
Queen  radiant  with  motherhood  of  splendid  chil- 
dren, that  some  wisdom  still  exists  among  men 
who  have  struggled  to  successful  refutation  of  a 
maniacal  assumption  of  divine  right  by  a  semi- 
stricken,  throned  buffoon  with  power  of  murder 
but  not  that  of  victory — the  shout  of  Wilhelm, 
Me  and  Gott! 

If  the  North  Sea  notices  such  trifling  optimistic 
signals  sparkling  faintly  in  the  general  murk  of 
a  new  century's  first  and  (let  us  hope)  most 
disastrous  quarter,  it  is  not  with  a  vivid  interest; 


FURY  81 

she  is  not  impressed.  To  the  North  Sea  centuries 
are  seconds;  well  she  knows  that  she  must  never 
cease  her  warfare  upon  the  creatures  of  this  island 
and  on  the  land  itself  until  the  God  of  Gods  in 
His  Millennium  shall  look  upon  her  waters  and 
give  for  all  Eternity  that  order  which  His  One  Be- 
gotten Son  once  gave  for  a  few  fleeting  moments 
to  another  restless  sea — "Peace,  be  still!" 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  North  Sea,  now  gowned  in  the  black  of 
night,  a  million  moon  pearls  glistening  upon 
her  pulsing  form,  danced,  to  the  music  of  the 
wind,  a  wild  bacchanal  of  icy  passion.  Her  drench- 
ing sweat  of  rain  dashed  into  the  face  of  Boy,  sing- 
ing at  the  wheel. 

The  misty  moon  had  cast  some  gems  upon  his 
glistening  oilskins.  His  face  tingled,  his  pulses 
leaped  with  The  Lady  Spray's,  caught  in  the  dark 
night  in  a  riotous  dance  which  made  her  pant,  and 
creak,  and  groan.  "A  halt  I  ...  a.  halt !  .  .  ."  her 
rigging  shrieked.  But  no! 

And  Boy  rode  on.  Life  was  a  mad,  wonderful, 
dream-lit  thing.  He  was  going  to  Leith !  To  Min ! 
.  .  .  To  Min  and  kisses!  Ho  there!  Wash  ho 
there !  you  wonderful  Sea !  Boy  dances  with  you ! 
Dance  on!  Sweep  him  on  ...  to  port  .  .  .  and 
Min  .  .  .  and  love! 

A  pace  away  Luke's  face,  looking  up  at  the 
moon,  shone  with  a  curious  light. 

It  was  a  wet  moon.  Luke's  poem  hummed  dully, 
harshly,  through  the  wind.  Boy  suddenly  remem- 
bered it. 

"When  ye  kin  pipe  the  bloomin'  moon 

And  yet  the  rain  is  fallin', 
Then  one  of  us  is  goin'  soon, 
It's  Davy  Jones  a-callin'." 

82 


FURY  83 

Boy  did  not  shudder ;  no ;  he  laughed !  Who  was 
going?  He  was!  Ha,  ha!  But  not  to  Davy  Jones 
— to  Min !  There  wasn't  any  power  on  earth  could 
stop  him — nothing! 

He  gripped  the  wheel,  and  thrilled  with  that 
faith  that  comes  to  men  who  know.  Min!  His 
Min! 

He  spat  salt  water  from  his  mouth  and  closed 
his  eyes.  She  stood  there  now — his  Min!  She 
spoke,  saying,  "I  love  ye,  Boy.  You're  my  boy, 
ain't  ye?"  And  her  hand  lingered  tenderly  upon 
his  cheek — a  rough  little  hand  caressing  a  rough, 
weathered  face.  Yes,  her  hands  were  rough,  her 
hands  were.  But  he  loved  to  hold  them  till  they 
dampened  in  the  young  warmth  of  his. 

He  could  feel  them  now,  though  he  stood  there 
on  a  tossing  ship  at  night  upon  the  grimly  caper- 
ing old  North  Sea ;  and  he  could  feel  her  little  body 
pressed  against  his  firm  muscles,  and  resting  very 
still.  Always,  he  reflected,  something  strange 
would  come  over  him  at  such  moments  ...  it 
might  be  as  if  he  wanted  to  cry.  .  .  .  No,  not  to 
cry.  For  it  was  a  feeling  of  curious  joy  that  al- 
ways had  to  end  too  soon  with  "Good-by;  good- 
by,  Boy.  God  bless  and  keep  my  Boy  for  me!" 
And  the  kiss!  She  always  closed  her  lips  tight, 
Min  did,  when  she  kissed  him.  And  then  he'd  close 
Ms  eyes! 

It  was  like  being  drunk,  when  their  lips  met,  and 
if  he'd  open  his  eyes  while  he  was  kissing  her  he'd 
see  the  green  depths  of  hers  filling  with  a  different 


84  FURY 

sort  of  tears  .  .  .  different  from  sorry  tears,  you 
know.  He  could  see  right  through  her  eyes,  when 
they  were  that  way,  over  miles  of  green  .  .  .  green 
.  .  .  green  ...  to  a  light  that  was  .  .  .  Mini 
That  was  Heaven!  Then  their  lips  would  part,  a 
tear  would  flick  away,  and:  "Boy  .  .  .  Oh,  my 
darling  Boy.  ...  I  love  ye.  Darlin',  darlin', 
Boy !" 

What  a  bloody  mixup  it  all  was!  Luke's  girl 
got  a  wallop  .  .  .  pity!  And  that  good-by  kiss 
had  been  a  chill,  quick  thing.  But  he'd  make  up 
for  that,  not  'arf  he  wouldn't!  There'd  be  so  many 
that  you  couldn't  count  'em,  all  day  and  all  night. 
He  was  going  to  have  her  all  the  time,  and  there 
wouldn't  be  no  more  good-bys.  He'd  miss  them, 
though,  those  good-bys.  They  were  wonderful; 
something  to  think  about,  those  sweet  good-bys! 

Eight  bells  clanged  through  the  wind.  The  Lady 
Spray  leaped,  as  though  it  were  a  signal  for  a 
change  in  the  figure  of  her  dance,  and  Boy,  his  lips 
together,  held  her  firmly  in  her  course,  and  looked 
off. 

His  sweeping  eyes  saw  Luke,  still  looking  up. 
He  could  stay  like  that  for  hours — no  oilskins, 
nothing,  wet  through — just  looking  up  as  though 
he  had  asked  the  moon  a  question  and  was  waiting 
for  the  answer :  "One  of  us  is  goin'  soon,  it's  Davy 
Jones  a-callinV 

What  a  creepy  thing  that  was !  Who  was  going 
soon? 

Boy  commenced  to  sing  suddenly: 


FUKY  85 

"Sweet  Adeline.  .  .  .  My  Artel-line, 

At  night,  dear  'eart, 
Fer  ye  I  pine.  .  .  ." 

He  could  not  hear  himself,  but  he  continued  .  .  . 

"In  awl  my  dreams, 

Yer  fair  face  gleams, 
Yer  the  pri-hide  h'  of  my  'eart, 
Sweet  Adel-line." 

Then  the  wind  began  to  sing  it,  then  the  rigging, 
then  the  wash.    The  night  was  alive  with  song. 

".  .  .  h'  of  my  'eart, 
Sweet  Min,  Min,  Min." 


CHAPTER  III 

WHILE  Limehouse  slept,  still  wearing  its 
tawdry  gleaming  jewels  of  paste,  and 
shadows  stole  from  their  lairs,  Limehouse 
seemed  to  hear  the  faint  bat  of  distant,  dreadful 
wings,  and  turning  in  its  troubled  sleep,  it  feared 
to  open  its  eyes  and  lay  panting,  still,  afraid  to 
look  .  .  .  afraid  to  die. 

A  woman  screamed,  shrilly,  and  piercingly  .  .  . 
and  then  silence  again,  save  for  the  gentle  breath- 
ing of  the  sleeping  ships.  Again  the  woman 
screamed  and  it  was  Min's  scream.  "Let  go  o' 
me,  ye  cow;  I'll  brain  ye!"  Through  the  partly 
opened  door  of  The  Sailors'  Best  could  be  heard 
a  scuffle;  then  a  low  voice  spoke: 

"I  was  watchin'  for  ye.  Do  a  bunk,  would  ye? 
I'll  see  ye  dead  at  me  feet,  first!"  The  voice  of 
Mother  Brent  rose  to  a  shrill  pitch  as  a  man's 
voice,  gruff  and  commanding,  spoke,  trying  to 
interrupt. 

"  'Ere,  take  yer  'ands  off  that  girl.  She  ain't  yer 
child.  You've  got  no  claim  by  the  law." 

The  voice  was  drowned  by  the  woman's  shrill 
crescendo:  "Ye  got  the  law  on  yer  side,  but  .  .  . 
take  that!  Let  go  my  arm,  you  dirty  brute.  .  .  . 
She's  .  .  .  she's  .  .  ." 

The  door  of  The  Sailors'  Eest  suddenly  opened 

86 


FURY  87 

wide  and  two  figures  emerged,  one  very  tall  and 
the  other  very  short.  The  door  slammed  .  .  .  and 
Min  walked  quickly  down  the  street  from  her  late 
residence  accompanied  by  a  tall  policeman. 

As  they  turned  into  Poole  Street  at  the  corner, 
they  heard,  back  in  the  distance,  behind  the  door 
wrhich  had  just  banged,  something  that  sounded 
like  a  muffled,  moaning  cry,  and  Min,  looking  up 
into  the  serene  face  of  her  tall  benefactor,  smiled. 

Ma  had  fallen  down ;  that  was  a  dead  cert.  She 
was  drunk  and  she'd  taken  a  nice  toss  for  herself. 
Ha,  ha!  Over  the  'at-stand  in  the  'all,  more  than 
likely!  And  maybe  she  'ad  broken  her  leg — one 
of  them  fat  piano  legs  of  hers — perhaps  both  of 
'em,  broke  'em  off  at  the  knee  so  that  they  was 
-'anging  by  a  piece  of  skin  ('urtin'  like  'ell,  damn 
her!)  an'  she'd  'op  on  a  peg  from  now,  an'  when 
she  got  drunk  she'd  keep  fallin'  down  off  it  and 
bangin'  her  head  against  door-knobs,  all  the  rest 
of  her  bleedin'  life!  Thank  'eavens,  Min  wouldn't 
see  her  no  more!  No;  thank  Boy  and  the  copper 
who  was  speaking  now. 

"That's  your  bus.  It's  Number  24  ye  want. 
'Ave  ye  got  a  penny  'andy?  I've  one  or  two." 

Triumph  colored  her  piping  voice  as  she  looked 
up.  "Not  'arf,  Cop.  I  got  eighteen  quid !"  It  was 
the  voice  of  Napoleon  proclaiming  the  might  of 
his  armies,  of  Lloyd  George  at  the  Peace  Confer- 
ence, of  Harding  on  Inauguration  Day.  It  was 
the  voice  of  triumph! 

The  moment  mounted  to  a  crest  as  the  bus,  a 


88  FURY 

great,  red,  roaring  bus,  stopped  and  skidded  for 
her,  for  Min. 

She  was  causing  things  to  happen.  She  had 
emerged  from  suds  and  sighs  and  silence  into  a 
world  that  noticed  and  obeyed ;  into  a  world  a  par- 
ticle of  which  belonged  to  her,  to  Min. 

Perhaps  it  was  because  she  had  a  cop  with  her 
that  the  bus  stopped,  because  they  both  signaled 
together.  She  waved  her  umbrella,  the  new  one 
with  the  ivory  apple  handle  on  it. 

Then  the  gentleman  in  uniform,  like  an  attend- 
ant blue  hussar,  handed  her  onto  the  step,  and 
another,  in  another  kind  of  uniform,  caught  her 
new  brown  bag. 

"Good-by,  Cockie,  and  ta  for  what  you  did! 
Pinch  that  old  cow  if  ye  ever  get  a  chance." 

The  bus  leaped  forward. 

Some  one  inside  the  bus  laughed  and  another 
said,  "Where  you  off  to,  Min?"  The  speaker,  a 
sailor,  stopped  asking  questions  suddenly,  as  a  new 
brown  bag,  caught  him  sharply  in  the  abdomen 
and  something  warm  and  living,  with  feathers  on 
the  top,  was  plumped  down  beside  him.  It  spoke; 
it  spoke  in  a  very  worldly  voice  : 

"  'Ullo,  Alf !  This  is  a  bit  of  all  right,  ain't  it? 
I  'ad  to  go  over  the  top  for  it!" 

"For  what?" 

The  feathers  tilted  and  a  flushed,  excited  face 
looked  up  into  his.  "Not  so  loud,  sporty.  It'd 
get  into  the  society  papers." 

"What  would?" 


FUKY  89 

"Guess." 

Alf  leaned  forward  and  bathing  her  in  beery 
breath  whispered  something  and  hiccoughed  know- 
ingly. A  moment's  pause  and  she  answered  him: 

"Yer  right  first  go  off,  Alfie.  I'm  off  to  Leith, 
and  .  .  ."  She  stopped  to  hand  a  penny  to  the  con- 
ductor. And  then  .  .  . 

No  one  else  in  the  bus  was  speaking.  They 
swayed  stiffly  with  its  motion,  amazed,  watching 
an  unusual  sight.  Here  they  were  in  a  bus,  on  a 
wet  night,  going  along  the  East  India  Dock  Road, 
feeling  becomingly  and  respectably  sober,  or  drunk, 
tired  and  wet,  and  there,  there  sat  a  young  girl, 
with  a  flushed,  happy  face  and  dancing  eyes,  who 
was  telling  that  sailor  that  she  was  too  happy  to 
talk  and  that  life  had  only  just  started,  and  that 
love  was  warm  and  beautiful  and  she  never  wanted 
to  die! 

Blimey!    What  was  the  world  coming  to! 

Min,  breathless,  stopped  speaking  and  gazed 
around  at  the  dirty,  shiny  faces  watching  her. 
Two  were  smiling,  one  was  asleep,  and  the  others, 
utterly  amazed,  were  looking  at  her. 

And  she  sensed  the  feathers  waving  on  her  head, 
and  smelled  the  tan  of  the  new  brown  bag,  and  felt 
the  ivory  handle  of  the  new  umbrella  soft  and 
warm  in  her  hand. 

She  swayed  easily  with  the  bus,  a  queen  in  her 
chariot,  dashing  forth  through  conquered  lands, 
surrounded  by  stately  courtiers.  She  thrilled  in 
the  wrarm  glow  of  queenly  well-being. 


90  FURY 

Was  she  not  going  in  state  to  meet  her  king? 

And  in  the  rumble  of  the  wheels  she  could  hear 
people — her  people,  billions  of  her  subjects — cheer- 
ing, as  she  and  her  imperial  conveyance  swept 
along  and  around  and  .  .  .  into  the  Commercial 
Road. 


CHAPTEK  IV 

THE  wind  song  filtered  into  the  tiny  cabin, 
lending  a  droning  obligate  to  the  voice  of 
the  sea  captain  speaking  thickly  across  to 
the  first  mate  seated  in  the  half-shadow,  just  be- 
yond the  table  upon  which  rattled  the  partly-filled 
glasses  beside  a  tall  jar  of  rum. 

A  changed,  weird,  unseamanlike-looking  old  man, 
with  a  lot  of  hair  falling  down  his  veiny  forehead, 
Leyton,  his  forearm  upon  the  table,  spoke  through 
the  smoke,  his  eyes  half -closed.  Events — and  years 
of  drink — were  shaking  him. 

" — so  ya  see  it  may  be  as  I  won't  make  the  ship 
out  of  Leith.  An'  in  that  case  it'll  be  you  what'll 
be  takin'  her  out  agin.  See?" 

The  man  in  the  half-shadow  assented  in  a  "Yes, 
Captain"  without  moving. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence  as  Leyton  drained 
his  glass.  The  stimulation  of  the  liquor's  bite 
sounded  in  his  voice  as  he  spoke  again:  "An'  it 
may  be  as  it  might  take  my  mind  ter  leave  this 
ship  for  good.  See?" 

"Yes,  Captain." 

Morgan's  glass  remained  full;  Leyton  rose  and 
filled  his  own.  Glancing  from  it  to  Morgan  he  hesi- 
tated. He  wanted  Morgan  to  ask  why  he  mightn't 
make  the  ship  out  of  Leith.  And  Morgan  didn't 

91 


92  PUEY 

ask.  It  wasn't  like  him  to  ask  anything,  that  is, 
with  his  mouth.  His  eyes  were  always  asking 
something — everything.  But  now  the  Captain, 
choking  with  something  he  wanted  to  say — some- 
thing that  made  his  hand  tremble  as  he  raised  the 
thick  ship's  glass  to  lips  which  were  peeling  and 
dry — wished  Morgan  would  encourage  him  by 
word-of -mouth  inquiry. 

A  pause,  as  the  Captain's  eyes  searched  those  of 
the  first  mate  and  Morgan's  answered,  challenging. 
A  duel  of  eyes!  If  Morgan  had  known  that  his 
Captain  was  merely  waiting  for  an  invitation  to 
explain  the  reason  for  his  break  in  plans,  would 
he  have  blinked  nervously  as  he  did,  leaned  for- 
ward to  pick  up  his  drink  and,  with  a  saluting 
movement,  held  it  before  his  mouth,  untasted, 
waiting  till  the  other  spoke? 

"A  surprise  to  ye,  eh,  Mr.  Morgan?" 

Now  Morgan  drank,  and  placed  his  glass  upon 
the  table  where  it  began  again  to  tinkle. 

"I  seem  to  have  got  beyond  being  surprised  at 
anythin',  cap'n.  You're  the  skipper  and  if  yer 
want  ter  jump  ship  you'll  jump.  That's  how  it 
appears  to  my  way  of  thinkin' !" 

Leyton  drained  his  glass,  rose  and,  going  behind 
the  table,  stood  before  his  first  mate,  his  hands 
deep  in  his  pockets. 

The  motion  rocked  them  curiously.  They  were 
like  children  playing  on  a  seesaw,  only  they  did 
not  laugh  and  scream. 

"You're  a  cold  fish,  Morgan." 


FURY  93 

"Well,  you're  'ot  enough  fer  all  of  us,  Cap'n." 

Leyton,  absorbing  to  himself  a  subtle  sense  of 
compliment  from  this  remark,  smiled.  Sober,  even 
he  could  not  have  missed  the  underlying  jeer;  but 
he  was  drunk,  and  quickly  encouraged  to  impul- 
siveness. 

"We've  been  shipmates  a  long  spell  now,  Mr. 
Morgan."  He  sat  down  with  an  effort,  gripping  the 
arms  of  his  own  special  chair,  breathing  heavily. 

"An'  I'm  goin'  ter  be  'otter,  Mr.  Morgan,  'otter 
than  I've  bin,  an'  I  won't  deny  as  I've  been  'ot  all 
these  years  since  .  .  ." 

He  paused  again  as  he  approached  his  subject. 
Morgan  hadn't  asked  for  it,  as  he  had  hoped  he 
would,  but  he  was  going  to  hear  it  all  the  same. 
It  was  only  a  day  or  two  now  before  Leith  and  it 
couldn't  be  held.  Some  one  had  got  to  listen  and 
there  was  no  one  but  Morgan.  The  Captain 
breathed  heavily,  thinking;  he  looked  up  as  Mor- 
gan changed  the  crossing  of  his  legs,  the  left  going 
to  his  right  knee. 

"Remember  'er,  Mr.  Morgan?" 

"Who?" 

"  'Er !  Don't  ask  who.  You  know  well  enough 
who." 

Morgan  uncrossed  his  legs.  It  was  almost  as 
if  he  was  preparing  for  something  that  concerned 
him  personally.  He  was  too  much  in  the  shadow 
for  the  other  man  to  see  the  change  upon  his  face. 

And  anyway  Leyton  was  looking  off  as  if  he  had 
repeated  something  that  another  self  had  whis- 


94  FUKY 

pered — that  other  self  that  had  stood  beside  his 
chair  for  twenty  years  pouring  out  drinks  so  that 
it  might  dull  its  suffering  and  protect  itself  against 
the  confessions  which  sober,  unrestricted  agony 
might  wring  from  a  tortured  soul  by  degrading 
possible  speech  to  drunken  mumbling;  the  unseen 
self  that  sometimes  pricked  his  eyes  until  tears 
came;  that  sometimes  smiled  but  more  often  jeered 
—waiting — waiting  for  what? 

"Why,  'er — I  mean  Mrs.  Leyton — 'er  that  I  was 
mad  at.  She  liked  you,  Mr.  Morgan.  She  always 
liked  you.  You  know  that." 

Morgan  made  no  remark. 

"I  guess  you  knew  she  did.  Yus;  she'd  always 
got  a  smile  fer  yer,  she  'ad — sometimes,  I  remem- 
ber, I  used  ter  wonder  why,  'cause  ter  my  mind 
ye  was  never  nuthin'  of  a  lady's  man — ye  never 
made  'em  laugh  ner  nuthin'." 

"She  'ad  a  pretty  kind  er  smile,  too,  'adn't  she 
— a  kind  er  pretty  smile!" 

Leyton  looked  away  as  though  the  other  self  had 
touched  him  lightly  on  the  shoulder  and  said 
"Look !"  and  as  if,  obeying,  he  had  seen  a  girl  smil- 
ing at  him — a  vague  and  misty  figure,  but  a  girl 
right  enough  with  very  large  eyes  and  a  lot  of  dark 
hair  blowing,  and  something,  either  it  was  rain  or 
tears  dashing  down  her  face.  But  she  was  smil- 
ing; yes,  she  was  smiling. 

For  a  time  neither  man  spoke.  The  mute  Mor- 
gan sat  strangely  somber,  watching  a  silent  old 
man  who  appeared  to  be  looking  away  at  some- 


FUEY  95 

thing  which  made  him  blink  his  eyes,  something 
that  Morgan  could  not  see.  He  watched  with  a 
cold  steadiness  as  his  Captain  turned  to  fill  his 
glass  again,  this  time  to  the  brim  with  straight 
rum.  After  he  had  drained  it,  he  looked  off  again. 
When  he  turned  it  was  impatiently  with  a  toss  of 
his  mane  and  a  fan  of  his  paw,  as  though  the  thing 
he  sought  he  could  not  find  and  so,  therefore,  he 
had  given  up  the  search. 

The  accompaniment  of  the  wind  changed  its 
tempo  suddenly ;  the  cabin  filled  as  if  with  the  eerie 
strains  of  oboes — millions  of  them  sounding  like 
one. 

"I've  'ad  news." 

"Oh!"  This  time  Morgan  had  to  say  at  least 
that  much  because  the  other  waited  with  eyes  fixed 
upon  him  in  even  more  intense  insistence. 

"I  know  where  she  is — where  she  is  now." 

"Yes?"  Again  silence  forced  at  least  a  mono- 
syllable. 

"You  wasn't  the  only  one  she  smiled  at  in  those 
days,  Morgan.  She  liked  you  'cause  you  were  my 
shipmate.  That  was  natural  enough ;  but  she  was 
smilin'  at  some  one  else.  I  guess  yer  know  that, 
too." 

Morgan's  eyes  showed  the  gleam  of  growing 
interest.  He  had  found  her.  Well,  how  had  he 
found  her?  And  what  was  he  driving  at  now? 

"Who  else  was  she  smilin'  at,  Cap'n?  Who 
was  it?" 

"What?" 


96  FUEY 

"I  said  who?    Who  was  it?" 

Leyton,  his  lips  tight  and  white,  poured  out  an- 
other drink.  Morgan's  voice  raised  a  little: 

"I  was  askin',  Cap'n,  who  else  did  she  smile  at?" 

Still  Leyton  did  not  answer.  Instead,  he  drank, 
holding  the  liquor  in  his  mouth  before  he  swal- 
lowed it  and  then  sinking  back  into  another  silence, 
which  Morgan's  voice  broke  heavily  when  he  could 
wait  no  longer. 

"What's  the  news,  Cap'n?" 

"She's  in  Leith!" 

"She  is,  heh !"  Morgan's  voice  sounded  natural 
enough. 

"Yes.  And  down  and  out — and  old  an'  drunk!" 
The  glass  in  the  Captain's  hand  dashed  to  the  table 
and  smashed,  so  that  only  one  was  left  to  sing. 
Leyton  did  not  stop  speaking:  "That's  why  I'm 
gettin'  off  at  Leith,  that's  why!  Now  d'yer  know 
why?  Do  yer?" 

"Goin'  ter  take  'er  back  agin,  Cap'n?" 

Leyton's  hoarse  shout  interrupted  him:  "Ye're 
mad!  Take  'er  back?  Ye7 re  mad!  Never!" 

He  rose  to  get  another  glass  and  filled  it.  Then, 
glancing  at  Morgan's  glass,  still  almost  full: 
"'Ere,  drink  that!" 

Mechanically  Morgan  drank,  his  eyes  never  leav- 
ing the  trembling  sodden  figure  of  the  captain 
while  it  sat  soggily  and  spoke  again : 

"Yer  think  I'd  take  'er  back?  Ever?  Yer  think 
I  would?  ...  Do  yer?  ...  Do  yer?  .  .  .  Me?" 


FURY  97 

The  other  leaned  forward  to  set  down  his  glass 
and  as  he  spoke  his  voice  seemed  casual  enough. 

"Yer  said  ye  were  goin'  ter,  didn't  ye?  I 
thought  I  'eard  yer  say  that." 

"Mr.  Morgan,  when  she  went,  the  day  she  went, 
I  pegged  out — I  died.  Me  body  and  me  'ands  and 
stomach  kept  on  goin'  'cause  I  didn't  blow  me 
brains  out  or  take  a  jump  fer  it;  but  I've  been 
dead  for  the  whole  twenty  years. 

"Yes,  fer  twenty  years  I've  bin  dead  and  now  I'm 
stinkin' — stinkin'  dead  to  'er!  I'd  'uv  'ad  meself 
buried,  as  I  should  'a  done,  but  I  'ad  somethin'  ter 
do.  D'yer  understan'  me?  Somethin'  ter  get  done 
with  first!" 

Morgan  sat  low  in  his  chair  as  the  voice  stopped. 
Now  he  really  was  interested — strangely.  And  less 
worried,  one  would  guess.  It  wasn't  like  the  old 
man  to  talk  much  about  anything.  Never  had 
been.  But  even  the  crew  had  noticed  something 
different  this  run.  Something  had  happened  back 
in  London.  And  now,  getting  drunk  proper,  he 
was  letting  himself  go.  He  was  at  it,  talking, 
talking ! 

"I  couldn't  get  no  track  on  'er — or  'im  as  took 
'er.  An'  never  'ave  since.  They  'opped  it  clean. 
Both  on  'em.  She  was  as  artful  as  a  cargo  of 
monkeys,  that  girl  was.  They  never  left  a  trace, 
an'  every  one  said  ter  me — every  one  said,  'fergit 
'em,  Dog.'  If  yer  remember,  yer  said  that  yerself 
ter  me,  'fergit  'em.'  Didn't  yer?  .  .  .  Didn't  yer?" 


98  FUKY 

"Yes,  I  somehow  call  to  mind  I  did."  Morgan 
leaned  forward — curiously.  Why  was  Leyton 
going  to  Leith  if  he  wasn't  going  to  take  her  back? 
He'd  started  all  this  talk,  calm  and  logical,  about 
him,  Morgan  taking  the  ship  out  after  Leith.  And 
now  here  was  the  old  man  looking  like  some  twitch- 
ing red  monster,  likely  to  take  one  of  them  fits 
again,  talking  like  he  used  to  talk  years  ago  about 
being  dead,  and  her  and  him  as  took  her.  What 
was  behind  it  all?  What  was  the  old  'un  driv- 
ing at? 

But  he  eased,  mind  and  body  tension  loosening. 
What  did  it  matter?  Leyton  was  stark  mad.  It 
was  only  a  question  of  time.  Let  the  silly  old 
blighter  rave!  To  Hell  with  him! 

Leyton  was  leaning  forward.  "Now  I've  got  my 
chance;  I've  got  it  and  when  it's  over,  I'll  kick 
in  and  die  proper,  an'  take  a  nice  sleep  and  a  long 
one." 

Morgan  felt  better  now.  Yes,  the  old  ?un  was 
mad — that  was  all.  Here  was  the  thing  to  say : 

"Don't  talk  that  way,  Skipper,  yer  good  fer  a 
long  spell  yet." 

His  voice  had  become  throaty  and  light;  as  he 
rose  he  poured  himself  out  a  drink,  repeating:  "A 
long  spell  yet — an'  here's  to  it!" 

And  standing  to  his  full  height  he  nearly 
touched  the  deck  above  with  his  head,  as  he  raised 
his  quarter-filled  glass.  Ha !  Ha !  The  old  'un  was 
mad! 

And  the  old  'un  sat  still  and  pushed  his  glass 


FURY  99 

forward  to  be  filled  to  the  brim  by  his  first  mate; 
his  shipmate  of  twenty-five  years;  his  shipmate 
whose  mind  had  now  again  reverted  to  its  usual 
cynical  calm  and  who  thought  again,  "the  old  'un's 
just  mad  drunk — ready  to  take  another  of  them 
leaping  fits  that  always  look  to  be  his  last." 

And  he,  Morgan,  would  have  to  take  and  pick 
him  up  and  get  his  breath  and  touch  his  sticky 
flesh  .  .  .  and  he  hated  the  old  swine! 

It  made  him  sick.  He  hated  him  too  much.  He 
always  had  hated  him,  since — well,  since  he'd  been 
and  got  in  first  with  that  crazy  beauty,  that  mop- 
haired  wonder  girl  from  Milwall — the  one  that  the 
old  'un  had  just  said  used  to  smile  at  him,  Morgan 
— the  one  that  he  picked  up  from  the  scuppers,  in 
the  rain,  an  hour  before  the  old  'un's  brat  was 
born! 

He  almost  trembled  now  at  the  memory  of  the 
glow  of  warmth  the  touch  of  her  body  against  his 
had  sent  through  him  even  in  that  freezing  rain. 

And  that  thrill  had  started  something,  hadn't  it? 
Yes,  that  business  had  started  something  all  right. 
Well,  well,  it  was  life,  anyway.  And  look!  Here 
was  the  old  'un,  that  poor  old  bag  of  bones  and 
booze,  still  at  it,  raving!  Hark  to  him! 

"Mr.  Morgan — " 

There  was  a  new  and  a  compelling  note  in  the 
Captain's  voice  that  made  Morgan  once  again  look 
sharply. 

It  was  "mad"  Dog  Leyton  speaking,  now.  He 
had  changed  again.  He  had  come  back,  red,  ill, 


100  FURY 

but  savage  and  all  there,  his  brown  teeth  showing 
white  foam  in  the  gaps  between  them. 

"Mr.  Morgan,"  he  repeated,  as  with  a  sudden 
lurch  he  seized  tlie  other's  coat.  "It's  come  at  last ! 
I've  got  'im  in  my  hand!" 

Morgan  turned,  looking  down.  "Who've  yer 
got?" 

"The  dirty  swine  that  took  'er !"  And  a  burning 
grip  of  steel  tightened  on  Morgan's  arm.  "The 
swine  I've  waited  for  ter  kill!" 

Morgan's  face  did  not  change,  but  as  his  gaze 
lifted  carefully  the  other  rose  and  spoke  into  his 
face: 

"I'm  goin'  ter  find  'er  and  I'm  goin'  ter  beat  'is 
name  out  of  'er!  An'  I'll  follow  'im,  an'  find  'im, 
an'  fight  'im— " 

"Oh!"  Morgan  relaxed  tremendously  within,  a 
little,  even,  on  the  surface. 

Leyton,  panting,  paused.  Then  both  hands 
caught  Morgan's  shoulders  and  the  voice  was  loud 
and  hoarse. 

"An'  I'll  kiU  'im!  .  .  .  Kill  'im!     An'—" 

The  hands  dropped  suddenly.  Breath  came  with 
difficulty;  but  the  Captain  was  almost  calm  again. 

"An'  if  I  don't  make  this  ship  out,  you'll  know 
that  I've  been  worsted.  But  it'll  be  a  fight.  It'll 
be  a  fight!" 

He  looked  through  closing  eyes  away  and  saw  a 
courtyard  paved  with  cobbles  from  between  which 
bits  of  green  peeped ;  and  he  seemed  to  hear  hoarse 
shouts  of  encouragement  behind  him;  he  moved  a 


FURY  101 

foot  which  clanged  with  heavy  armor,  and  both 
hands  grasped  his  sword. 

He  saw  a  hated  thing  with  visor  down  and 
armor  black  as  night  advancing  towards  him. 

His  body  quivered,  his  grip  loosened  and  the 
sword  clattered  to  the  ground.  He  would  kill  this 
thing  with  his  hands !  He  would  crush  this  black 
and  loathsome  specter;  he  would  tear  this  sinister 
thing  apart  with  his  hooked  fingers! 

And  then  it  was  gone,  and  the  wall  of  the  cabin 
moved  up  and  down  slowly,  before  his  vision ;  Mor- 
gan was  picking  up  a  glass  that  had  fallen  to  the 
ground  when  the  sword  did,  and  Leyton's  voice 
filled  the  cabin  with  a  loud  cry. 

"I  could  almost  see  him !  He  was  there,  stand- 
ing before  me — there !  .  .  .  I  could  almost  feel  his 
throat  like — like — " 

And  his  red  hands  closed  and  gripped  themselves 
until  his  own  eyes  rolled,  and  he  leaned  heavily, 
panting,  against  his  special  chair. 

Then  Morgan  asked  a  question. 

"Have  you  any  suspicions  as  to  who  it  is — as  to 
who  the  man  was  what  done  this  thing  ter  yer?" 

As  Morgan  waited  for  the  answer,  for  some  rea- 
son, he  took  a  step  back,  so  that  his  body  might 
balance,  poised  in  an  attitude  which  almost  seemed 
like  physical  readiness. 

Eyes,  red  and  blood-shot,  met  Morgan's.  Expres- 
sionless eyes,  that  gleamed  suddenly  .  .  .  gleamed 
suddenly  and  then  went  out  again  .  .  .  and  then 
looked  very  red  as  the  shaggy  head  shook  violently 


102  FUEY 

and  a  look  of  searching  wonder  deepened  upon 
Leyton's  face. 

"No !  He'd  be  rotting,  dead,  now,  if  I  did  know ! 
If  I  had  known!  But  I  can't  die  before  killin' 
'im.  ...  I  won't.  ...  I  won't!  That's  why  I'm 
goin'  ter  find  'er  and  beat  his  dirty  name  out  of 
?er.  And  when  she  spits  it  I'm  goin'  ter  find  'im, 
an'—" 

The  torrent  ended  in  a  gurgle.  Something 
choked  him  .  .  .  and  Morgan  caught  his  Captain's 
arm  and  helped  him  to  sit  breathlessly,  his  legs 
swinging  backwards  and  apart,  his  red,  rum- 
striped  nostrils  distending. 

Bloody  old  fool!  And  above  him  Morgan's  face 
gleamed,  smiling.  Courage  came;  the  courage  of 
the  coward  out  of  danger;  and  there  was  banter  in 
the  voice  that  said,  lightly,  conversationally: 
"So  she's  in  Leith,  heh?" 

Leyton's  hand  went  to  his  back  trousers  pocket 
and  drew  forth  a  black  purse  with  a  tiny  steel 
clasp.  He  could  not  open  it,  because  his  hands 
were  trembling,  so  his  shipmate  did  it  for  him,  and 
drawing  forth  a  piece  of  crumpled  paper,  Morgan 
read  at  a  glance : 

"MacFarlanete  Rescue  Home, 
Waterfront, 

Leith." 

He  laid  it  upon  the  table,  before  the  old  'un,  who 
was  sitting  very  still. 

So  she  was  there,  was  she?    Some  one  'ad  been 


FURY  103 

doin'  a  bit  of  rescuin',  and  'ad  copped  'er  fer  a 
prize  packet!  Kescued  'er  fer  what?  What  a 
world  this  was!  She  oughter  been  dead!  What 
was  there  to  rescue?  And  what  for?  Why  save 
her?  She  was  all  worn  out  and  drunk  and  bent! 
Rescued !  Hell ! 

And  old  doddering  Dog,  drunk,  going  to  beat 
'er!  Ha,  ha!  Beat  'er  fer  the  name  of  some  one! 
An'  when  she'd  said  it,  old  Dog,  this  drunken,  tot- 
tering fool,  was  goin'  ter  take  the  name  and  find 
the  bleedin'  owner  so's  to  choke  'im!  Ha,  ha! 

Morgan's  smile  broadened  to  a  grin  and  actually 
held  there,  even  when  he  saw  that  the  Captain's 
eyes  were  fixed  upon  him. 

"What  yer  grinnin'  at?" 

"Grinnin'?" 

Dog  Leyton  struggled  to  his  feet.  "Yes,  grinnin', 
damn  yer!" 

And  then,  with  amazing  audacity,  Mr.  Morgan 
sat  and  crossed  his  leg,  looked  up  and  actually 
laughed ! 

"What  is  it,  Mr.  Morgan?  What's  the  joke?" 
Dog's  head  lowered  and  two  hard  eyes  gleamed; 
there  was  no  sag  in  the  body  that  took  a  step 
forward. 

The  smile  on  Morgan's  face  passed  suddenly,  for 
a  ferocious,  sinister  thing  stood  over  him. 

He  had  laughed  too  soon.  This  old  fool  had  come 
back.  Dog  Leyton  for  a  long  time  had  had  a  trick 
of  throwing  off  twenty  years  with  his  coat  and 
here  he  was.  His  head  had  gone  down  and  was 


104  FURY 

moving  slowly  from  side  to  side,  and  didn't  look 
any  too  gentle.  There  wasn't  any  one  who 
wouldn't  be  afraid  of  Dog  like  this.  Yes;  Morgan 
had  laughed  too  soon. 

"What  is  it,  Mr.  Morgan?  Speak  up!"  Ley  ton 
took  another  step  forward.  He  could  get  no  closer 
now  without — 

"I  was  laughing  at  the  thought  of  Boy,  when  he 
hears  yer  won't  be  at  his  weddin',  Cap'n!" 

"What  weddin'?" 

"The  one  in  Leith.  Ain't  he  told  yer  he  was 
gonna  jump  ship?" 

"What  fer?    What?" 

Morgan  rose  with  difficulty,  because  the  Captain 
stood  so  near  him.  He  brushed  by  his  stomach 
as  he  crossed  to  the  table  almost  awkwardly.  "Per- 
haps I  shouldn't  'ave  said  nothin',  Cap'n,  but  she 
told  me  'erself!" 

"Who?" 

"That  little  tart  what  you  warned  off  Noak's 
last  time  we  was  in.  She  works  down  at  The  Eest. 
The  one  what — " 

"What  about  'er?" 

"Yer  boy's  jumpin'  ship  at  Leith  to  splice  'er! 
So  he  ain't  told  yer?" 

Morgan  was  pouring  out  a  drink.  It  was  his 
third.  Now  he  felt  good.  He  talked  on  lightly, 
chattily. 

"A  little  eloping  match.  Father  an'  ship  don't 
seem  to  matter  these  days.  Do  they,  Skipper?" 

He  raised  his  glass. 


FURY  105 

"Here's  to  the  'appy  pair,  I  say,  the  Skipper's 
son  and  the — " 

The  glass  was  dashed  out  of  his  hand,  and  the 
hoarse  voice  of  his  Captain  gave  him  an  order. 

And  he  said,  "Aye,  aye,  sir."  And  picking  up  his 
oilskins,  he  pulled  back  the  hatch  and  stepped  out 
into  the  rain. 

But  he  was  laughing  .  ,  .  and  the  word  went 
forward  that  the  old  'un  must  have  told  a  joke 
for  Morgan  had  passed  laughing. 

"Garn.  'E  was  squintin'.  The  bleedin'  rain 
was  in  'is  eyes." 


CHAPTER  V 

SO  Morgan  passed  forward  to  where  Boy  stood 
telling  Looney  Luke  to  write  a  poem  about 
him  and  Min;  why  not?  It  was  better  than 
that  moon  song  about  somebody  dying,  and  Davy 
Jones.  And  Looney  Luke  asked  about  Leith,  and 
the  leap  to  love  .  .  .  and  smiled. 

Men  must  strike  for  happiness,  which  if  lasting 
must  be  the  bliss  of  achievement.  To  seize  against 
odds  is  to  be  brave!  And  brave  men  live  long  in 
life  and  death  upon  their  spoils.  Bravery  is  a  fact, 
and  facts  do  not  lie.  To  be  eternal,  one  must  pre- 
cipitate fact.  Some  facts  are  still-born  and  un- 
worthy, others  live  and  grow  through  time.  And 
Boy's  happiness  was  to  be  the  serene  content  of 
conquest;  his  world,  a  large,  small  world;  his 
battlefront,  a  gangplank;  his  objective — a  girl! 

So  thought  Looney  Luke  as  Boy  talked  on,  until 
Morgan  came  and  stood  between  them,  the  dying 
smile  still  upon  his  face. 

Without  a  word  he  took  the  wheel  from  Boy's 
cold  hands.  Boy,  puzzled,  looked  up  quickly. 

"Watch  ain't  up." 

Morgan,  putting  his  oilskins  round  his  neck, 
smiled  again.  "Something  else  is.  Captain  wants 
yer." 

106 


FUKY  107 

For  a  moment,  Boy  did  not  move.  A  vague 
foreboding  numbed  him.  What  had  happened? 

Almost  as  if  anticipating  a  question,  Morgan  had 
turned  his  back. 

Boy  glanced  at  Looney  Luke,  who  was  gazing 
up  at  the  moon  again. 

There  was  nothing  to  say,  so  he  turned  away. 

And  the  rain  pattered  around  him  as  he  went 
down  forward,  and  the  wind  sounded  like  a  low 
cry. 

In  a  moment  Boy's  sky  had  become  troubled. 
He  even  forgot  Minnie. 

What  was  up? 

He  stood  still  and  felt  cold.  Weather?  Rotten; 
but  he  never  had  felt  cold  before — he  never  had 
felt  any  storm  before.  Sick?  He'd  be  damned  if 
he'd  be  sick !  You  don't  get  sick  sudden-like.  What 
was  that?  A  lantern  fell!  That  was  all.  It 
sounded  like — 

Hell!  He'd  got  the  jimjams — a  bad  touch  of 
them. 

What  was  Morgan  laughing  at?     What? 

Ah!  He  had  heard  Boy  talking  about  Min  in 
Leith.  That  was  it!  And  he  was  laughing  about 
it.  Damn  him!  he  would  laugh. 

He  didn't  know  nothing  about  love  anyway.  But 
it  wasn't  like  the  old  man  to  change  the  watch  in 
the  dead  of  night.  Why  hadn't  the  old  'un  turned 
in?  It  was  after  eight  bells.  Well,  he  hadn't 
turned  in  last  night  at  all.  He'd  been  talking  to 
himself  all  night.  Boy  had  heard  him,  and  lis- 


108  FURY 

tened,  and  tried  to  make  out  what  he  was  saying, 
but  he  couldn't  hear. 

The  old  'un  wanted  him  now — what  for? 

Lonely — maybe!  There  came  to  Boy  a  vague 
memory  of  a  time,  a  long  time  ago,  when  he  was 
a  little  fellow,  and  his  father  had  held  him  in  his 
arms  all  night  and  called  him  by  a  woman's  name. 

Boy  always  had  remembered  that  because  it 
seemed  to  be  from  that  time  that  the  Captain  was 
after  him,  punching  him,  goading  him. 

A  gust  of  rain  hit  his  face  and  roused  him.  He 
walked  forward. 

What  did  anything  matter?  He  was  going  to 
Leith,  wasn't  he?  And  it'd  take  a  million  Dogs 
...  or  cats,  or  lions,  or  tigers  to  stop  him. 

He  opened  the  door  of  the  cabin  and  stepped  in, 
and  as  he  closed  the  door,  the  wind  thumped  it 
loudly,  shutting  it  fast — tight,  as  if  to  dare  the 
world — to  interfere — with  fate! 


CHAPTER  VI 

MANY  miles  to  Port  on  land. 
A  train  was  dashing  into  the  wet  night 
— a  shrieking  train,  its  fire  glowing,  the 
curls  of  its  white  steam  tresses  stretching  down 
its  straight  glistening  back  in  billowing  whisps. 

On  the  Yorkshire  moors,  from  a  distance,  it 
looked  rather  like  a  noisy  caterpillar,  bent  on  wak- 
ing sleeping  birds.  And  nearer  cattle  started  to 
their  feet,  blinking,  glowering,  at  this  roaring, 
jeweled  breaker  of  their  dreams.  An  important 
train,  though — through  stations  only — the  Scottish 
Flyer — the  event  of  the  night. 

The  proud  engine  raised  her  chest  and  screamed 
her  approach. 

Some  one  had  whispered  to  this  engine,  once,  of 
the  speed  and  size  of  engines  in  America,  hoping 
perhaps  to  check  her  engine-shed  vanity  and  arro- 
gance. And  the  Scottish  Flyer  had  tossed  her  head 
and  replied: 

"My  dear,  they  are  like  savages!  Large  and 
swift,  but,  oh,  utterly  without  culture !  They've  no 
refinement.  Why,  they  are  not  even  allowed  at 
main  stations;  they  drop  their  trains  some  miles 
from  the  city  and  an  electric  takes  them  in!  Oh, 
yes,  I've  heard  of  them.  But  what  of  them !" 

And  the  aristocrat  of  English  enginehood  had 

109 


110  FURY 

straightened  her  long  neck  and  puffed  with  easy 
self-satisfaction. 

Oh,  England !  Will  nothing  replace  your  grow- 
ing disdain  of  "larger  usefulness?  The  dogs  upon 
your  streets  walk  slower,  only  because  they  are 
English.  Their  legs,  like  those  of  other  dogs  across 
the  sea,  are  straight  and  lithe  and  built  for  speed, 
but  here,  the  English  dog — • 

"The  world  is  moving  too  swiftly.  It  requires 
the  slow  sureness  and  precision  of  England  to  calm 
its  tempo  to  normality  and  dignity." 

Some  traveling  hound  repeated  this  to  an 
American  dog  and  he  paused  and  thought  for  a 
moment.  Then  he  said: 

"England  is  sure  a  wonderful  country!"  and, 
laughing,  ran  away  with  a  long,  easy  lope  which 
was  grace  itself  and  fast. 

And  there  was  something  in  his  laugh  that 
caused  a  mother  to  draw  a  child  to  her  quickly 
and  say:  "Don't  touch  that  doggie;  he's  upset 
about  something,  dearie!" 

Not  for  a  moment  that  our  Scottish  Flyer  could 
or  should  have  proceeded  at  a  faster  pace  this  wet 
night.  Oh,  no.  Her  one  fault  was  her  engine-shed 
vanity,  and  beyond  that  there  is  nothing  but  praise 
to  bestow  upon  this  proud  and  useful  thing,  dash- 
ing forward  like  a  race  horse  into  the  north,  into 
the  night. 

The  Duke  and  Duchess  of  Sutherland  and  a 
party  were  going  north  to  Dunn  Robin;  also  the 
Duke  of  Atholl. 


FURY  111 

Some  osteopaths  were  bound  for  Edinburgh  to 
attend  a  bone-setting  convention. 

The  mayor  of  that  city  was  upon  the  train,  tak- 
ing without  much  patience  Pussyfoot  Johnson,  due 
at  a  prohibition  meeting  in  Aberdeen  the  following 
day. 

Also  there  was  Miss  Minnie  Brent,  of  London, 
en  route  for  Leith. 

Oh,  yes,  she  was  violently  consequential;  a  very 
pompous  affair,  that  Scottish  Flyer,  as  she 
screamed  and  roared,  turned  her  slim  shoulders 
round  a  bend  into  York  junction  and  finally  came 
to  a  reluctant  and  shriekingly  protesting  stand- 
still. 

In  a  third  class  carriage,  Min,  in  a  corner  seat, 
held  out  a  trembling  hand  for  the  cup  of  coffee 
some  one  brought  her  with  two  lumps  of  sugar  in 
the  saucer,  and  smiled  her  thanks. 

Above  her  upon  the  luggage  rack,  the  umbrella, 
the  new  one  with  the  ivory  apple  on  it,  lay  awake, 
watching,  musing,  next  to  the  new  brown  bag, 
which  was  fast  asleep.  Bags  were  made  to  sleep 
on  trains;  they  are  born  travelers. 

But  the  umbrella  had  heard  the  beating  rain 
outside,  and  longed  to  open  up,  and  sweep  along — 
blown !  A  glistening  new  thing,  banging  into  the 
other,  older,  shabbier  umbrella  with  a  passing 
sneer.  Life  called.  Perhaps  at  Leith  it  would  be 
raining;  and  then  perhaps  it  would  not  be. 

What  pessimists  umbrellas  are! 

This  one  had  summed  up  the  character  of  its 


112  FUEY 

new  owner  and  trembled  at  the  thought  that  it 
might  never  be  open.  Umbrellas  are  keen  things 
and  .  .  .  well  .  .  .  from  a  careful  analysis  of  its 
brief  experience  with  the  little  human  sitting  just 
below,  its  deduction  was  that  a  fight  in  which  an 
umbrella  would  not  be  such  a  bad  weapon  might 
not  be  at  all  unlikely. 

And  then,  again,  this  new  owner  more  than  once, 
during  their  brief  relationship,  had  referred  to  this 
perfectly  good,  useful,  beautiful  umbrella — as  "Me 
brolly."  And  that  hurt!  Every  tradition  of  its 
umbrellahood  was  violated  by  that  vulgar  refer- 
ence, and  so,  uncomfortable  and  numbed,  half 
under  the  heavy  sleeping,  new  brown  bag,  it  lay, 
brooding  upon  the  possibility  of  a  broken  neck 
should  that  brawl  occur.  That  funny  little  owner 
now  in  the  seat  below  had  opened  it  in  the  house, 
early  the  night  before,  to  show  it  to  some  sailors; 
and  every  one  knows,  including  umbrellas,  that 
that's  unlucky! 

And  this  umbrella  was  from  a  good,  middle  class, 
hard-working  stock,  and  there  was  no  reason  at  all 
that  what  was  true  of  other  umbrellas  should  not 
be  true  of  it.  It  hoped  that  the  bad  luck  which 
must  come  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  a  brawl, 
but— 

Umbrellas  are  bitter  things  when  their  pride  is 
hurt. 

It  dozed.  Now  it  could  not  hear  the  rain  be- 
cause they  were  in  a  station. 


FUKY  113 

They  were  moving  forward  again.  The  guard 
had  shut  and  locked  the  door,  because  the  man 
who  had  brought  the  coffee  tipped  him,  and  Min 
looked  up  at  his  face;  he  was  the  only  other  occu- 
pant of  the  carriage. 

He  was  a  tall,  sad  man,  who  smiled,  and  rising, 
gently  placed  a  warm  plaid  rug  round  her  knees, 
tucking  it  briskly  but  quite  respectfully  under  her 
thighs. 

Min's  eyes  never  left  his  face.  Her  lips  were 
drawn  tight.  She  was  waiting — waiting  for  what? 
Here  this  man  had  been  with  her  alone  in  the  car- 
riage from  King's  Cross;  six  hours.  He'd  given 
her  a  book,  slept  a  bit,  taken  a  couple  or  more 
swigs  of  Scotch  from  a  flask,  offered  her  some. 
She'd  refused.  He'd  slept  a  bit,  closed  the  win- 
dows, smoked  like  a  chimney  and  spoken  only  once 
or  twice  in  a  way  that  sounded  as  though  he'd 
known  her  all  her  blinking  life  and  before  that. 

He'd  undone  his  boots  at  the  top,  and  the  but- 
tons of  his  waistcoat  where  his  stomach  pushed 
against  it. 

He'd  sung  a  bit  in  tunnels;  she'd  heard  him 
above  the  roar.  He'd  given  her  a  white,  clean  pil- 
low, which  he'd  got  from  a  man  with  a  lot  of  them 
at  King's  Cross.  He'd  picked  up  her  railway  ticket 
when  she  had  dropped  it  and  he'd  fiddled  with  his 
mustache  a  lot  with  the  hand  that  didn't  hold  his 
pipe.  She  had  watched  it  all  and  waited — waited 
for  what? 


114  FURY 

She  had  prayed  inside  herself  while  the  train 
was  waiting  at  King's  Cross  that  some  one  else 
would  get  in. 

Some  one  nearly  had,  but,  on  seeing  this  man 
speak  to  Min  about  something,  they  had  withdrawn 
considerately,  and  so  he  and  she  had  started  off 
alone,  with  a  whole  seat  each,  and  Min  had  kept 
awake  watching,  waiting — for  what? 

The  roaring  night  leaped  against  the  windows, 
wet  with  rain;  and  the  wheels  and  rails  echoed 
with  measured  precision. 

Min  glanced  up.  Her  feathers  waved  encourag- 
ingly on  the  luggage  rack  above  her  and  reminded 
her  of  where  she  was  going.  She  had  almost  for- 
gotten in  the  tense  hours  that  had  just  passed. 

She'd  only  been  on  a  train  once  before  and  that 
was  when  Salty  Barnard  had  taken  her  that  Sun- 
day last  summer  on  the  excursion  to  Southend,  and 
she  remembered  that  once  vividly.  Missing  the 
excursion,  they  had  taken  a  later  ordinary  train 
back,  and  had  had  a  carriage  to  themselves  and 
Salty  had  been  drunk  and,  oh — why  think  of  such 
things? 

But  the  vision  of  herself  alone  in  a  railway  car- 
riage with  a  man  had  always  given  her  a  couple 
of  shudders.  She'd  used  a  bottle  that  night  with 
good  effect  but  this  'ere  bloke  carried  his  booze  in 
a  flask.  The  only  club  she'd  have  would  be — 
would  be — er — the  new  brolly  up  there.  Pity  it 
was  a  new  one,  but  what's  a  blooming  brolly  when 
your  honor  is  concerned? 


FURY  115 

And  the  umbrella  above  her,  that  could  read 
thoughts,  like  all  other  umbrellas,  opened  its  eyes 
— and  shuddered. 

Her  reverie  halted  suddenly  as  a  voice  spoke.  It 
was  a  low,  soft  voice,  that  reminded  her  vividly  of 
the  Rev.  W.  F.  P.  Vane,  when  he  used  to  call  at 
The  Rest  and  say  to  her,  "Good  hahfternoon,  Min- 
nie Brent.  His  your  mistress  at  'ome?"  The  soft 
voice  of  the  man  opposite  was  speaking  now. 

"Why  don't  you  get  a  little  rest?  We've  a  long 
time  yet." 

What  was  the  lay?  Did  he  want  her  to  go  to 
sleep  so  that  he  could  spring  at  her — sudden-like? 
Or — or — 

Perhaps  he  knew  that  they  were  going  to  stop  at 
another  station  and  he  had  got  it  in  his  mind  to 
hop  it  with  her  bag  and  feathers.  Or  ...  or  ... 

Min  only  knew  one  kind  of  man  outside  Boy  and 
sailors,  and  Mr.  Vane,  and  that  was  the  man  she 
had  read  of  in  the  Heartease  Library  and  who  was 
on  the  stage  sometimes  in  sketches  down  at  the 
Poplar  Hippodrome — and  in  the  movies  too — the 
bloke  with  a  mustache,  and  the  soft  voice.  And 
this  was  one  of  them  all  right,  all  right!  She 
spoke  up  like  the  heroine: 

"I  ain't  sle'epin',  matey — not  with  you  aroun'!" 

A  cheer  from  the  gallery  as  the  wheels  passed 
over  junction  rails,  and  Min  watched  the  villain 
smile.  He  was  the  goods  all  right,  all  right! 

A  long,  noisy  silence  and  clouds  of  smoke  poured 
from  the  man  opposite. 


116  FUEY 

"Pinkie,"  Min  some  time  before  had  christened 
him  mentally  because  smoke  came  out  of  him  like 
it  did  out  of  that  tall  chimney  at  Pinks  Jam  Fac- 
tory down  where  she  used  to  live.  "Pinkie."  He 
was  a  lad  from  the  city  all  right;  she  felt  his  eyes 
upon  her. 

"Is  your  home  in  Leith?" 

She  did  not  answer  at  once.  He  was  a  nosey 
villain,  this  one  was;  a  fly  bird;  and  she  snapped 
out:  "No,  it  ain't.  D'you  live  there?" 

Pinkie  answered  in  a  deep,  polite  voice :  "No,  my 
home  is  near  London,  Croydon.  Do  you  know 
Croydon?" 

Min  shook  her  head  and  Pinkie  continued: 

"As  a  rule  it's  wonderful  to  be  going  home,  isn't 
it?  I  thought  you  were  going  home  because  you 
seemed  so  happy." 

How  did  Min  know  it  was  wonderful  to  be  going 
home?  She'd  never  had  one.  But  she  nodded  her 
head.  She  liked  listening  to  his  voice;  and  then 
again  he  was  safer  when  he  was  talking. 

But  he  had  stopped  talking  and  was  looking 
away  out  of  his  window;  and  Min,  thinking  some- 
thing was  up,  looked  out  of  hers. 

Vague  shadows  and  ghosts  leaped  forward  and 
past  and  frightened  her,  and  her  head  turned  sud- 
denly back. 

The  villain  had  a  handkerchief  out  and  was  blow- 
ing his  nose. 

Min  watched  him  curiously.  Something  whis- 
pered that  he  hadn't  only  been  blowing  his  nose. 


FURY  117 

That  might  be  a  drugged  handkerchief  and  per- 
haps he  was  going  to  rush  at  her. 

But  now  something  gave  her  a  sinking  feeling,  a 
thickening  in  her  throat.  She  didn't  know  why, 
but  she  felt  sorry  for  him.  He  looked  funny  and 
his  eyes  were  watery.  She  broke  the  silence, 
asking : 

"What's  up?    Caught  a  chill?" 

He  smiled  and  shook  his  head.  "No.  You're 
observant,  aren't  you?" 

Observant?  That  meant  something  tricky.  She 
was  suspicious  again  and  yet  she  was  interested. 
This  bloke  was  a  queer  kettle  of  fish.  She  liked  his 
voice  and  asked: 

"What's  observant  mean?" 

"When  you're  observant  you  are  quick  to  see 
things;  quick  to  notice." 

Min  felt  complimented.  She  purred.  "I've 
always  been  that  way." 

Pinkie  smiled,  and  picked  up  the  conversational 
note:  "I'm  glad  we're  making  this  trip  together." 

"Why?" 

"Because  you're  young  and  pretty,  and  fresh; 
and  you  seem  to  be  on  the  verge  of  something. 
You're  so  full  of  hope  and  life." 

Min  flushed.  "You're  complimentary,  I  must 
say."  Yes,  she  liked  his  voice. 

"I've  watched  you  all  the  way  and  wondered 
where  you  were  going.  Are  you  going  to  a  new 
situation?"  And  his  eye  glanced  meaningly  at  the 
new  brown  bag. 


118  FURY 

Blimey,  what  a  nerve !  What'd  he  take  her  for, 
a  blinking  slavey?  She  straightened  up  quickly. 

"No;  I'm  an  engaged  woman.  I'm  going  to 
Leith  to  get  spliced.  I'm  going  to  splice  Mr.  Ley- 
ton — Mr.  Boy  Leyton!" 

Pinkie  actually  laughed.  "Forgive  me.  And 
allow  me  to  congratulate  you  both !" 

Min,  still  straight  in  her  seat,  inclined  her 
head. 

"Thanks;  same  to  you,  matey!" 

She  waited  and  watched  him  put  down  his  pipe 
and  lean  forward.  She  drew  back. 

"Little  lady,  you're  on  the  threshold  of  life's 
sweetest  journey.  Be  happy;  love  your  man. 
Keep  him  true  and  strong.  God  has  given  him  to 
you.  He  is  your  charge.  All  men  are  like  babies. 
They  need  a  woman's  arms.  Her  voice,  tender  al- 
ways, her  patience  enduring.  I  envy  you,  little 
girl,  and  your  wonderful  journey's  end." 

He  was  talking  like  a  blinking  book,  but  Min 
liked  his  voice  and  it  was  the  kind  of  gab  that 
didn't  lead  up  to  springing  at  her.  His  voice 
lowered : 

"I  lost  my  love  who  was  everything  to  me !  She 
was  my  life.  But  although  she  has  left  my  side 
for  a  little  while,  she's  with  me  every  moment — 
whispering,  guiding,  comforting.  You  remind  me 
of  her — only  you're  much  younger.  She  used  to  sit 
on  the  seat  opposite,  just  as  you  are  sitting  now, 
and  so  we  traveled  many  miles  together.  Just  like 
this.  She  and  I.  You  will  never  leave  your  man's 


FURY  119 

side,  will  you?    Come  what  will,  you  must  hold 
fast.    He  is  yours;  God  gave  him  to  you!" 

This  Pinkie  could  talk  all  right  and  Min  under- 
stood the  last  part  of  what  he  said.  It  coincided 
with  her  attitude  to  her  Boy  exactly.  He  needed 
her  .  .  .  always!  She'd  stick,  right  enough! 

She  looked  away  because  the  thought  made  her 
feel  like  crying;  and  Pinkie  seemed  to  be  thinking 
too.  It  was  one  of  those  silences  that  are  beautiful 
moments;  and  Min  picked  up  the  paper  to  check 
her  tears — the  one  he  had  brought  in  from  the  re- 
freshment room  at  York  Junction. 

Her  attention  was  arrested  at  once  by  a  head- 
line 

NEWCASTLE  MURDEKER 

DIES  TO-MORROW  MORNING 


Thomas  Morton,  28,  Miner,  Convicted  of 
Murder    of    Ernest    Spurr,    His   Watch- 
mate,  to  Pay  Extreme  Penalty  of  Law 
at  Dawn! 

Min  read  on ;  she  liked  murder  news. 

"The  murder  was  the  outcome  of  a  long 
feud  between  the  two  men,  between  whom 
a  woman's  name  was  linked,  and  the  mo- 
tive pleaded  was  vengeance.  .  .  ." 

Min  looked  up.  Like  Morgan  and  Boy.,  she 
mused.  Thank  God  that  matter  was  settled! 
Morgan's  bacon  was  well  cooked,  as  far  as  she  was 
concerned  She  turned  again  to  the  paper : 


120  FUEY 

"Brenton — the  hangman  from  London 
— was  expected.  .  .  ." 

That  was  a  funny  one — Brenton!  Half  her 
name,  or  rather  Ma  Brent's  name.  "Brent-on,"  a 
hangman !  Probably  an  uncle  who'd  stuck  a  bloom- 
ing "on"  on,  just  to  be  funny. 

The  hangman  .  .  .  woo!  .  .  .  ooo!  «  .  .  Min 
shuddered. 

She  liked  reading  this.  It  was  thrilling;  and 
she  read  on,  devouring  gruesome  details  of  igno- 
rance, passion,  murder  and  inevitable  punishment. 

Later  the  paper  fell  from  her  hands  as  she 
dozed,  dreaming  vaguely  of  the  hangman's  noose 
and  Dog  Leyton  and  Ma  Brent  and  Morgan,  and 
hated  things,  and  the  hangman's  rope,  and  then 
Boy  as  he  sang  to  her  (as  almost  always  in  her 
dreams)  "Sweet  Adeline." 

The  song  stopped  suddenly  because  the  train  did ; 
and  a  hoarse  voice  outside  shouted:  "Newcastle!" 

Pinkie  was  getting  his  bag  and  coat.  The  guard 
unlocked  the  door,  opened  it  suddenly,  passed  on. 
Min  sat  up. 

"'Ere's  yer  rug,  matey!" 

Pinkie  stepped  out  and  turned  back  to  her. 

"You've  some  time  yet,  and  it's  cold.  Will  you 
accept  it  as  a  wedding  present?  And  don't  forget, 
little  lady — stick  to  your  man!  Love  him  and  the 
world  is  yours!" 

Like  the  song,  "Love  me  and  the  world  is  mine," 
thought  Min.  The  door  slammed  suddenly  and 
Min  rose  and  put  her  head  out.  Pinkie  stood  there 


FUEY  121 

in  the  rain  beside  his  black  bag.  Two  men  came 
up  and  one  spoke: 

"Good  morning,  Mr.  Brenton.  We  were  looking 
for  you  down  first  class." 

The  newly  alighted  passenger  started  to  reply; 
and  then  as  the  train  moved  forward,  he  turned 
and  waved,  calling:  "Good-by,  little  lady!  Stick 
tight!" 

But  Min  did  not  wave.  She  pulled  herself  back 
into  the  carriage  suddenly,  her  eyes  wide  with 
terror.  Picking  up  the  paper  which  had  fallen 
to  the  floor,  she  scanned  it  quickly. 

"Mr.  Brenton,  the  hangman  from  London  .  .  ." 

Blimey!  And  that  was  Newcastle!  She  was  a 
Sherlock  Holmes  all  right.  Her  brows  contracted. 
Pinkie!  Pinkie!  The  hangman!  And  he  talked 
about  love,  and  Boy,  and  sticking.  She  shivered 
suddenly,  pulled  Pinkie's  rug  about  her  knees,  and, 
leaning  back,  closed  her  eyes. 

She  was  out  in  the  world  all  right!  She  could 
hear  Pinkie's  voice  now: 

"Little  lady,  you're  on  the  threshold  of  life's 
sweetest  journey." 

Min  sat  very  still,  her  eyes  closed,  trembling,  as 
the  hangman's  rug  fell  from  her  knee&  to  the  floor. 


CHAPTER  VII 

SOME  men,  like  some  bulls,  are  ordained  from 
birth  to  fight  in  the  arenas  of  sport  and  life. 
They  are  reared  in  health  upon  open  places 
and  every  precaution  is  taken  to  insure  their  fero- 
cious and  gallant  resistance  to  the  supreme  ordeal. 
But  from  the  start  it  is  all  planned  that  that  ordeal 
shall  be  final. 

Fate,  the  breeder  of  men,  like  the  breeders  of 
bulls,  knows  from  long  experience  that  red  blood 
and  courage  must  predominate  in  their  lusty 
charges  if  they  are  to  fight  in  splendid  agony  and 
die  amusingly. 

Fate  loves  its  man-fight.  The  phantom  matadors 
of  such  a  battle  can  have  no  equal  in  a  mere  bull- 
ring; the  picadors,  the  music  and  the  blood  upon 
the  sands  of  time,  all  are  there  in  pompous  pag- 
eantry. .  .  .  And  perhaps  sometimes  God  in  His 
Royal  Box  turns  his  head  away,  men  seem  to  suffer 
so,  these  fighting  men,  but  Fate  applauds  from 
tiers  and  sunnyside.  And  man  fights  on,  a  single 
man  against  a  bewildering  multitude  of  crimson 
shadows. 

When  a  woman  had  dashed  her  cruel  rosette  into 
his  pulsing  withers  and  the  gate  had  dropped,  Dog 
Leyton  had  dashed  into  mid-arena,  a  towering, 
maddened  mass.  White,  whispering  horses  were 

122 


FURY  123 

coaxed  to  flout  his  horns  as  folk  bade  him  forget 
and  lowered  their  voices  subtly.  He  had  fought  for 
years,  bellowing,  pawing,  thrusting,  left  and  right, 
right  and  left. 

And  now  since  Petwee's  news  of  the  woman  in 
Leith,  he  had  sensed  the  approach  of  a  glittering 
matador,  a  man  who  hides  behind  a  cape,  with 
glossy  black  hair  a-curl,  with  full  red  lips  such  as 
women  love  and  the  glinting  eye  of  a  thief — a  wife- 
thief — a  body  broad  and  long  and  slim  below  the 
ribs  .  .  .  advancing  .  .  .  bent  upon  dispatch.  .  .  . 

He  could  not  see  this  man;  blood  and  rage  had 
blinded  him ;  it  was  his  to  wait  and  paw  the  ground. 
Soon,  soon  the  haze  would  clear,  the  cape  would 
lift  or  drop.  There5  d  be  no  passes,  no  thrills,  he'd 
rip  this  bobbined  upstart  for  the  world  to  see  .  .  . 
rip  and  tear  and  gore.  .  .  . 

His  head  lowered  and  a  foot  came  down.  He 
stood  still,  trembling,  ominous,  waiting. 

But  Fate  loosed  and  decreed  he  was  not  tired 
enough  yet!  Too  soon  for  the  matador!  A  little 
cloak  play  yet,  another  shaft  or  two  in  those  con- 
gealing withers!  Good  sport,  this  fighting  man!" 
Good  sport! 

Zas!  And  the  phantom  matador  paused  and 
turned  aside  into  the  shadows  ...  to  watch  a 
while. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

BOY  found  his  father  waiting,  silent,  by  the 
table.  As  he  entered  the  smoky  cabin  and 
tossed  his  dripping  oilskins  upon  the  Cap- 
tain's special  chair,  he  advanced  with  glowing 
cheeks,  still  tingling  from  the  wind. 

"What's  up,  sir?    Are  yer  sick  again?" 

For  a  moment  Leyton  did  not  speak.  He  ad- 
vanced a  step.  Boy  stood  still,  calm  and  waiting. 
This  was  something  out  of  the  ordinary.  There 
was  a  hint  of  tragedy  in  the  silence.  And  then  his 
father  spoke: 

"Any thin'  to  say?" 

Boy  hesitated,  thought,  then  shook  his  head  natu- 
rally: "No;  why?" 

"Nothin'  ter  teU  me?    Me?    Yer  father?" 

"No;  nothing.    Why?" 

"Liar !"  The  sea  captain's  voice  broke  forth  like 
a  sudden  peal  of  thunder  when  the  lightning  is 
overhead. 

Boy  stepped  back. 

"Who's  a  liar?    Who?    Who?" 

"You !" 

The  father's  face  was  very  close  now ;  his  breath 
was  upon  Boy's  mouth  and  his  body  quivered 
threateningly.  The  breath,  hot  and  liquored,  of- 

124 


FUEY  125 

fended  Boy  and  something  in  the  threatening  figure 
before  him  called  his  courage  up.  A  changed, 
strong  Boy  answered  quickly: 

"I  ain't  no  more  of  a  liar  than  you  are,  see?  .  .  . 
See?" 

The  other  blinked. 

Fine !  Here  was  an  answer  worthy  of  his  mood. 
Yes,  Boy  had  answered  back.  Good ! 

Boy  was  still  speaking.  "What're  yer  gonna  do? 
Hit  me?  G'wan!  What  for?" 

"Yer'd  jump  ship,  would  yer!    Would  yer?" 

"Yes,  I  would  .  .  .  an'  all  ...  an'  I'm  agoin' 
ter,  see?" 

He  could  not  talk  any  other  way.  The  courage 
of  the  sea,  the  courage  of  love,  the  courage  of  a 
man  spoke  out. 

This  was  not  a  father  that  stood  ahead  as  though 
to  bar  his  way  to  happiness;  it  was  an  obstacle,  a 
grotesque,  flabby  obstacle.  Had  it  been  other  than 
his  father  in  his  subconscious  realization  he'd  have 
knocked  that  red  face  through  the  bleeding  cabin 
wall !  Yes,  he  would !  As  it  was,  he  just  listened 
as  the  obstacle  spoke,  spitting  out  the  words: 

"So  yer'd  jump  ship,  would  yer,  to  get  mixed  up 
with  some  dirty — " 

A  young  voice,  vibrant,  commanding,  stopped 
this. 

"Get  down !  Stop  that  .  .  .  yer  dirty  drunk !" 
And  Boy's  eyes  flashed. 

The  man  who  spoke  had  fire  in  his  eyes  and 
venom  in  his  voice,  with  muscles  below  to  back 


126  FURY 

them  up.  A  young  Dog  Leyton  was  born  suddenly 
into  a  violent  world. 

"It's  you  what's  dirty;  it's  yer  dirty  rotten 
mind!"  he  spat  out  insultingly.  "Yer  dirty, 
stinkin'  drunk!" 

And  the  captain,  old  Dog  Leyton,  blinked  and 
stepped  back  as  far  as  the  table,  staring  at  a  kid. 
No ;  not  a  kid.  A  man,  young,  eager,  strong,  whose 
claim  to  manhood  had  been  long  enough  deferred. 

The  sea  captain  blinked  again.  At  last,  after  all 
these  years  of  intimate  relationship,  something 
had  happened  to  Boy,  that  easily  dominated,  cow- 
eyed  Boy,  that  Boy  with  her  face,  the  face  that 
left  him. 

It  looked  him  in  the  eyes  now  with  a  militant, 
steady  gaze,  the  exasperating  firmness  and  the 
maddening  note  of  conviction  in  the  voice. 

Ah,  the  glove  was  down,  was  it?  .  .  .  Here's  to 
it!  ...  At  last  he'll  fight! 

But  how  long?  Of  what  stamina  is  this  new  man 
made? 

And  with  a  funny  kind  of  shout  the  sea  captain 
threw  his  glass  against  the  wall  and  backing  to  the 
table  squared  his  shoulders  waiting.  A  fight,  hey? 
.  .  .  How  much  of  one?  How  long?  This  Boy 
.  .  .  man  .  .  .  what  of  him?  How  good? 

Hark !  Talk,  talk !  Any  one  could  talk !  How 
good  was  he? 

Yes,  Boy  was  talking.  He  asked  a  direct  ques- 
tion in  the  captain's  face: 


FUEY  127 

"What  did  you  ever  know  about  women?  A 
dirty,  blastin',  cussin'  drunk  like  you?" 

And  Boy  actually  walked  forward  as  he  spoke. 

"Why,  no  decent  woman  would  ever  live  with 
you !  I  don't  believe  yer  ever  was  me  father.  No 
woman'd  ever  know  yer  well  enough  to  have  a  kid 
by  yer.  It'd  make  'er  too  dam'  sick!  .  .  .  Yer 
dirty,  rotten!  You  don't  know  nothin'  about 
women  except  ter  blast  'em  .  .  .  and  yer  don't 
blast  my  woman!  On  yer  rotten  life  yer  don't! 
See?  .  .  .  See?  .  .  .  She  ain't  dirty!  I  owe  yer 
one  fer  the  last  thing  yer  said  ter  her  .  .  .  an'  I 
owe  yer  a  lot  more'n  that,  too.  Damn  yer — damn 
yer — see?" 

A  thousand  trumpets  rang  a  fanfare  through 
the  wind  as  a  gentleman  of  courage,  a  champion 
of  women,  a  lover  of  kisses  and  steel,  galloped  into 
the  open  and  reined  up,  his  lance  aslant,  his  glove 
down  to  any,  for  the  sake  of  honorable  advance- 
ment. 

The  sea  captain  walked  forward  and  peered  into 
the  face  of  his  sailor  son.  .  .  .  He  was  a  drunken 
botanist,  who  had  found  a  black  rose.  He  sagged 
and  fumbled  for  words,  but  found  none. 

And  Boy  waited  too,  but  as  his  father  did  not 
speak,  began  again,  generating  an  almost  spiritual 
power  as  the  words  rushed  from  his  lips.  There 
was  no  trace  of  hysteria  in  the  voice;  it  was  calm, 
penetrating,  cruel  in  its  cold  ferocity  of  denuncia- 
tion. 


128  FUKY 

"Yer  been  on  at  me  since  I  can  remember.  Yes ; 
an'  I'm  jumpin'  ship,  see?  I'm  jumpin'  ter  get 
clear  of  you  an'  all  yer  mean  to  me!  An'  I'm  me, 
see?  I'm  me;  an'  I  ain't  no  part  of  you  from  now 
on,  see?" 

The  words  rang  with  finality  as,  beating  his  own 
chest,  Boy  stepped  forward  uttering  his  bitter  con- 
clusion : 

"Gawd  in  'eaven!  Nobody  ever  could  love  you 
.  .  .  an'  keep  on  an'  on.  .  .  ." 

Boy  spoke  on,  but  his  father  could  not  hear  him. 

"Nobody  ever  could  love  you  an'  keep  on 
an'  on!" 

The  words  recurred  and  swirled  about  him, 
making  him  giddy  .  .  .  now  near  .  .  .  now  far 
away  .  .  .  hurrying  back  from  the  distance  of 
time  like  an  echo  swept  up  from  the  forgotten 
across  a  vast,  misty  vista  .  .  .  from  the  past  into 
the  present. 

"Nobody  ever  could  love  you  an'  keep  on 
an'  on!" 

It  swelled  again — that  dreadful  sentence. 

A  woman  screamed  it  now.  Dog's  hands  went 
to  his  ears  as  if  to  check  his  hearing;  but  such 
sounds  do  not  come  to  ears;  they  shrieked  within 
his  skull  and  echoed  like  the  beat  of  eagles'  wings 
against  the  walls  of  a  deserted  church. 

The  latent  fires  in  Dog  Leyton's  eyes  flickered 
weakly  as  he  turned. 

Boy  stopped  speaking  and  waited,  defiant,  as  his 
father  came  and  said  to  him,  almost  quietly : 


FURY  129 

"It's  'er  talkin'  in  yer.  She  said  them  very 
words!  .  .  .  She  did!" 

Boy  asked  sharply:  "Who  did?" 

"She  did.     I  loved  'er  then — " 

Boy  pulled  away,  unmoved.  His  lips  curled  as 
he  spoke  his  sneer. 

"You  couldn't  love  nothin'  but  yerself  an'  yer 
rum." 

Dog  Leyton  sagged.  The  flood  of  memory  rush- 
ing had  quenched  the  fire  of  anger,  and  left  only 
steaming  debris  upon  his  vision.  He  looked  across 
at  his  son,  now  no  longer  to  him  anything  more 
than  an  issue  of  some  vague  connection  with  a 
woman  in  the  distant  past.  He  gazed  across  at  a 
stranger  of  his  flesh  and  blood,  but  a  clear-eyed, 
convinced  and  dangerous  stranger,  pausing  upon 
the  road  to  tell  this  old  man  who  had  lost  his  way, 
that  he'd  better  get  into  the  ditch  .  .  .  and  die! 
That  he  was  no  good  to  any  one,  not  even  if  he 
found  his  way! 

"Yer  'ittin'  me  at  last,  Boy !  Not  with  yer  fists, 
but  yer  'ittin'  me — not  with  yer  'ands!" 

"The  truth  'urts  worser,  don't  it?" 

Boy's  words  lashed  out.  Why  wait  now?  Why 
talk?  The  old  'un  looked  such  a  silly  old  fool  .  .  . 
all  soggy  ...  a  sailor,  a  sea  captain!  Ha,  ha! 
Looked  more  like  one  of  them  old  musicians  what 
busked  on  Saturday  nights  outside  The  Jolly 
Sailors. 

"Captain  Dog  Leyton — Gawd!" 

And   he   and   others   had   actually   feared   this 


130  FUKY 

mumbling  old  sot!  Why  wait?  It  was  over,  for 
good  and  all;  and  if  there  was  any  more  lip  out 
of  this  old  swine,  he,  Boy,  would  give  him  what 
he  had  always  asked  for,  a  crack  on  that  bristling 
old  jaw  of  his.  Yes,  and  one  on  the  raspberry  nose 
for  luck! 

Boy  was  picking  up  his  oilskins.  He'd  finished 
with  the  sea.  He  turned,  as  a  sound  escaped  the 
old  -un,  and  looked  back  at  his  father. 

Good  cloak  play  this  .  .  .  but  the  man  in  the 
arena  was  breathless,  sagging.  Would  he  drop 
before  .  .  . 

The  phantom  matador,  waiting  in  the  shadows, 
stamped  his  foot  impatiently.  Would  death  cheat 
him  at  the  moment  of  his  triumph?  No!  No! 
Because  Fate  yells,  "The  fire!  ...  The  fire!  .  .  ." 

The  old  'un  turned  back  to  the  table  and  trem- 
blingly picked  up  his  glass.  Pointing  to  the  jar 
of  rum,  he  bid  his  son  with  a  gesture  fill  it  for  him, 
because  he  knew  he  himself  could  not.  His  hands 
were  trembling  so. 

And  this  was  the  Captain  of  the  ship,  and  the 
young  sailor  whom  he  addressed  was  second  mate, 
and  so,  of  course,  the  Captain  was  obeyed  and  the 
glass  was  filled  by  the  second  mate.  It  was  drained 
at  a  gulp. 

Then  the  second  mate  again  picked  up  his  oil- 
skins, swinging  them  over  his  arm  with  almost  dis- 
respectful jauntiness.  But  at  the  door  he  turned, 
because  his  Captain  spoke. 


FURY  131 

"Did  yer  know  yer  father  was  jumpin'  ship  at 
Leith,  too?" 

"You  are?    Why?" 

It  was  a  moment  before  the  answer  came;  an 
answer  that  wept  softly  to  itself. 

"Yer  mother's  ailin'  an'  wants  me!" 

The  young  sailor  started  suddenly. 

"Me  mother?" 

His  mother!  For  the  first  time  his  mother.  It 
had  always  been  "  'er"— "  'er"— "  'er"— "that  cow" 
—"that—" 

But  now  the  sacred  word  of  "mother"  pealed  out 
in  the  tiny  cabin  like  the  throbbing  note  of  an 
organ  in  a  church  in  the  evening. 

Then  father  and  son  gazed  into  each  other's  eyes 
and  the  son  watched  his  father  weep,  as  the  cruel 
callous  of  years  fell  from  his  heart  and  stripped 
him  naked,  leaving  him  ashamed. 

The  mouth  opened  softly  and  tried  to  speak  and 
tears  coursed  down  a  weathered,  wrinkled  face. 

Bowed,  helpless,  tragic,  weeping  ...  a  man,  a 
big-framed  man,  a  captain  of  the  sea,  standing  be- 
fore a  tribunal  of  three  ...  a  ghost  .  .  .  his  son 
.  .  .  and  himself  .  .  .  trying  to  articulate  such 
words  as  "forgive,"  "love,"  "mother,"  "wife," 
"son,"  "please,"  "mercy,"  .  .  .  words  he'd  only 
sensed  .  .  .  words  he  did  not  know  and,  like  a 
baby,  could  not  speak. 

Boy's  voice,  tender  and  soft,  broke  the  silence : 

"Me  mother — where  is  she?" 


132  FURY 

It  was  a  moment  before  the  answer  came,  while 
Dog  Leyton  piped  his  slacking  senses  back  to  action 
and  stood  erect. 

"In  Leith!" 

Boy  spoke  quickly :  "An'  yer  goin'  ter  see  'er  .  .  . 
in  Leith?" 

Dog  Leyton  was  by  the  table,  looking  away ;  and 
then  he  turned  suddenly,  on  fire  again.  .  .  .  The 
fire!  .  .  .  The  fire! 

The  cape  which  had  seemed  still  for  an  instant, 
as  if  from  pity,  swung  quickly  into  new  activity. 
The  crowd  had  roared  "The  fire!"  and  fire  it  had; 
the  fighting  man  was  in  another  frenzy.  Fate 
screamed  its  mad  delight.  Good  sport,  this  man ! 

With  a  cry,  Dog  Leyton  dashed  the  table  on  its 
side. 

"I'm  goin'  ter  find  the  swine  what  took  'er,  an' 
left  'er,  an'  lied  to  'er!" 

Yes,  he's  quite  mad,  now.  Gripping  at  an  imagi- 
nary man,  he  tears  at  the  air;  his  hoarse  voice 
shouts : 

"An'  I'll  rip  'im  an'  I'll  tear  'im— I'll— " 

Hands  of  steel  had  caught  Foy's  throat.  He 
cannot  see  who  it  is ;  he  is  choking ;  his  strength  is 
as  c.  baby's. 

The  voice  shouts:  "Rip  'im,  tear  'im  .  .  .  tear 
'im!" 

Suddenly  the  hands  relax  their  cruel  hold,  the 
sea  captain  catches  at  the  collar  of  his  shirt  as 
though  to  wrest  away  ghost  fingers  that  are  tearing 
at  his  throat,  and  leaping  into  the  air  he  pitches 


FURY  133 

forward,  down  upon  his  face!  Down  upon  the 
floor  .  .  .  and  lies  there  very  still! 

Boy  knelt  down  beside  him.  Sounds  came  from 
him;  stifling,  sobbing  sounds. 

"Father!    My  father!    Oh,  father!    Father!..." 


CHAPTER  IX 

VAGUE,  fleecy  clouds  swept  past  the  pale 
profile  of  a  weeping  moon.  The  wind 
veered.  The  rain  hesitated.  The  sea  paused 
for  breath.  And  Looney  Luke,  who  knew  these 
things,  peered  forth  into  a  night  of  ghosts  and 
sighs,  an  eerie,  moody  night  of  things  that  passed 
unseen. 

He  closed  his  eyes  as  if  waiting  for  something; 
his  dripping  shirt  clung  to  his  thin,  warm  frame, 
its  wet  sleeves  clapping  ridiculously  in  the  wind. 

Looney  Luke  prayed. 

"Oh,  God,  this  night  you're  with  us  fer  proper. 
I  feel  yer  breath  upon  me  cheek.  I  feel  yer  will. 
Yer  needn't  speak  no  more.  But  the  lad  what 
comes  to  yer  arms  to-night  .  .  .  kiss  'is  cheek  and 
hold  'im  tight!  Whether  he  is  from  The  Lady 
Spray,  or  a  ship  an  'undred  miles  away  .  .  .  for 
Jesus'  sake,  amen!" 

Opening  his  eyes,  Looney  Luke  sighed,  with  the 
sweet  content  of  one  who  has  laid  his  burden  on 
the  shoulders  of  a  strong  friend.  He  knew  the  way 
across  the  fallen  leaves,  into  the  peaceful  glades 
of  perfect  thought.  He  turned  now  at  the  sound 
of  voices  when  Mr.  Hop  spoke  quickly  to  Morgan 
at  the  wheel. 

"Better  come  down  right  away.     Quick!" 

134 


F  U  B  Y  135 

Morgan  called  Luke  and  after  giving  him  the 
wheel  and  a  curt  order,  turned  off  down,  asking  a 
hurried  question  which  Mr.  Hop  was  answering; 
but  the  wind  took  their  voices  awaj. 

Outside  the  cabin  door  they  pushed  past  hands, 
mysteriously  informed  that  something  had  oc- 
curred, standing  taifrfag,,  hatless,  some  coatiess,  in 
the  rain. 

Inside  Morgan  walked  quickly  forward  to  where 
his  Captain  lay  very  still  and  looked  down  upon 
the  debris  of  a  body. 

In  Morgan's  glance  there  was  nothing — nothing 
more  than  the  glance  one  gives  to  a  beetle  just 
crushed  beneath  a  boot,  its  delicate,  inert  frame 
sticking  to  the  floor,  its  arms  outstretched,  plead- 
ing to  the  Beetle  God  to  end  its  agony. 

Boy,  kneeling  by  the  bunk,  had  not  looked  up  at 
their  entrance;  but  he  had  sensed  the  identity  of 
the  tall  shadows  cast  upon  the  wall  beyond.  No 
one  spoke  until  Mr.  Hop  looked  up  from  another 
brief  examination. 

"Can't  do  nothin'.    Ifs  just  to  wait,  that's  all!" 

Boy  would  have  arisen,  but  his  father  firmly  held 
his  hand  and  lay  there  still,  his  eyes  closed  and 
his  face  strangely  blue. 

"Whaf re  yer  a  doctor  fer,  if  yer  can't  do 
nothin'?" 

Mr.  Hop  did  not  reply.  But  Morgan  spoke  for 
him.  "There's  times  when  the  doctors  themselves 
can't  do  nothinV 

Boy's  head  turned  again  to  Ms  father  who  had 


136  FURY 

moved  slightly.  He  did  not  see  Morgan  glance 
down  upon  the  floor  to  where  a  scrap  of  paper  lay 
with  an  address  written  upon  it,  reach  quickly 
down,  secure  it  and  place  it  carefully  in  his  pocket. 

What  did  any  one  want  with  an  address  like 
MacFarlane's  Rescue  Home?  What — 

The  captain's  voice  spoke  softly,  a  painful 
wheeze  in  it. 

"Get  out.    I'll  talk  to  Boy." 

Without  a  word,  the  first  mate  left  with  Mr. 
Hop. 

Outside  the  men  asked  with  their  eyes:  'ad  the 
old  'un  killed  'imself?  .  .  .  gone  daffy?  .  .  .  dropped 
dead? 

That'd  make  Morgan  skipper  now! 

The  old  'un  was  'ot,  but  this  tall,  silent,  superior 
cuss,  .  .  .  not  much !  There'd  be  another  ship  ter 
find  fer  some  of  them. 

And  they  peered  through  the  rain  as  Morgan, 
talking  quietly  to  Mr.  Hop,  passed  along  with 
almost  a  jaunt  in  his  stride,  as  though  even  now 
he  were  master  of  The  Lady  Spray. 

And  she,  herself? 

The  Lady  Spray  seemed  to  know  that  something 
was  changing  within  her.  Her  ship's  heart  beat 
thumpily;  ship-like,  she  shuddered  irritably  at  the 
light  uncertain  hands  that  turned  her  head  again 
and  again  from  her  course,  which  she  could  have 
gone  alone,  she  knew  so  well,  as  Looney  Luke  for- 
got the  wheel  and  the  world  to  gaze  wistfully  at 
the  moon. 


FURY  137 

The  weather  started  up  again  and  with  a  ven- 
geance. The  wind  set  up  a  howl  and  sadness  set 
upon  all  sides  as  a  black  cloudbank  veiled  the  moon 
in  crepe. 

Boy,  kneeling,  heard  the  moan  outside  and  shiv- 
ered. His  father,  speaking  almost  easily,  had  told 
him  a  lot,  in  measured,  even  phrases  and  he,  Boy, 
understood. 

In  those  brief  moments,  his  father's  hand  in  his, 
he'd  met  his  mother.  Her  pale,  sweet  face  had 
been  painted  in  Ms  father's  whispered  words;  the 
tragedy  of  age  touched  his  cheek  and  bleached 
it.  Boy  was  afraid  to  interrupt.  He'd  forgotten 
that  his  father  stood  no  more,  but  lay  tired,  breath- 
less. He  was  painting  vivid,  definite  pictures  of 
the  might-have-been.  It  was  a  dream,  all  of  it. 
This  was  not  his  father  .  .  <  no!  He  had  entered 
a  weird  cavern  where  strange  voices  whispered  of 
things  he  vaguely  knew  about;  where  the  two  pale 
ghosts  of  a  girl  and  man  kissed  and  peered  away, 
waiting  for  what?  For  happiness?  No!  It  could 
not  be,  because  she  swept  away  to  leave  the  man 
who  loved  her,  but  could  not  show  her  how  much, 
calling,  an  angry,  agonized  call. 

And  only  the  echoes  answered  mockingly — and 
then  the  man  went  mad  and  fell,  and  lay  here 
beside  him  on  the  bunk  .  .  .  and  was  bidding 
him  .  .  . 

Leyton  struggled  and  raised  himself  with  his 
arms. 

He  did  not  speak  at  once.    His  eyes  were  asking 


138  FURY 

a  question,  which  was  answered  in  the  other  eyes, 
that  said: 

"Anything  .  .  .  anything  yon  may  ask,  father! 
I'm  your  son.  I  love  yon!  Bid  me!" 

At  length  Leyton  spoke:  "I'm  done,  Boy.  .  .  . 
Some  water." 

The  burning  throat  cleared  gratefully  as  Boy 
placed  the  empty  glass  upon  the  floor. 

"Swear  you'll  find  'im  .  .  .  the  one  what  took 
'er  .  .  .  swear!" 

The  steady  young  voice  answered  him:  "I 
swear !" 

"Swear  on  the  soul  of  yer  father,  down  below !" 

A  sudden  cry,  as  Boy's  head  fell  forward:  "No; 
no  ...  you  ain't  goin'!  It's  one  of  them  passin' 
fits.  You  ain't  goin'  ter  die!" 

With  amazing  strength  his  father  lifted  Boy's 
head  and  held  it  between  two  rough  wet  hands,  al- 
most firmly. 

"Swear  you'll  not  marry  no  one,  that  you'll  do 
nothin'  till  you've  found  'im !" 

"Father,  I  swear.  .  .  I  swear!" 

The  oath  broke  off  into  a  sob.  "You  look  funny, 
father !  I'll  get  'Op — Lemme  go !  Lemme  go !" 

But  the  hands  gripped  him  like  a  vise. 

"You'll  marry  no  one  .  .  .  you'll  do  nothin'  till 
you've  found  'im  and  paid  'im." 

Boy  tugged  at  the  hand  that  held  his  head. 

"No,  no!    I  won't  do  nothin'.     See?" 

The  man  on  the  bunk  continued  doggedly :  "Hold 


FURY  139 

up  yer  'and  an'  swear  yer  won't  do  nothin'  until 
you've  got  'is  throat  like  .  .  .  like  .  .  ." 

A  gurgling  rattle  .  .  .  the  voice  trailed  away 
.  .  .  and  Boy  laid  his  father  back,  calling  loudly : 
"Mr.  Hop!  Help!" 

But  the  wind  outside,  laughing  now,  drowned  the 
voice. 

He  could  not  move  because  his  hand  was  held 
in  the  grip  of  death.  He  bent  forward  and  over: 
"You  ain't  gonna  die!  Yer  goin'  to  Leith,  to 
mother!  Yer  goin' — " 

He  stopped  as  two  eyes  opened  and  looked  at 
him  .  .  .  two  calm,  vague  eyes  but  lighted.  His 
father  spoke: 

"Boy  .  .  .  I've  loved  ye  all  the  time." 

The  eyes  held,  still  looking  up;  dear,  wonderful 
eyes  that  must  not  go  out;  eyes,  with  fathomless 
depths  of  love — . 

"All  ...  the  time!" 

Boy's  eyes  flooded  with  tears. 

"No,  no!" 

Young  tears  dropped  .  .  .  pat,  pat  ...  on  his 
father's  cheek  and  mouth. 

"Father!  Don't!  Yer  can't.  Yer  goin'  ter 
mother!  Ter  mother!" 

Then  a  heavy  movement.  Two  big  arms  fell 
around  his  neck  and  crushed,  and  pulled  him 
down,  down  against  a  cold,  cold  face,  and  a  rasp 
in  his  ear  said: 

"Kiss  .     .  'er  fer  me!" 


140  FURY 

Two  burning  lips  found  his,  full  upon  his  mouth, 
and  held  .  .  .  and  throbbed  .  .  .  and  stiffened. 
One  breath,  a  burning  sigh,  came  upon  his  mouth, 
and  scorched.  ...  A  tumbled,  gray  head  rolled 
back  .  .  .  down  as  from  a  mountain  .  .  .  back 
upon  his  shoulder. 

The  moon  cleared,  full  and  white.  A  silver  ave- 
nue from  the  sea  led  to  the  skies  .  .  .  inviting,  free 
.  .  .  and  Luke  saw  a  light  pass  slowly  up  and  out 
beyond  ...  a  light  that  in  its  passing  left  Boy 
huddled,  and  alone. 


"Oh,  God  he  is  a  funny  bloke, 

His  moods  they  puzzle  me — 
But  always  he  comes  smiling  up, 
At  dawn  across  the  sea!" 

• — LOONEY  LUKE'S  POEMS 


CHAPTER  I 

UNCERTAIN  gray  gave  gentle  place  to  rose. 
The  world  seemed  waiting.  Far  out  to  the 
east,  sullen  black  rollers,  with  whimsical 
green  smiles  breaking1  upon  their  crests,  green, 
white  and  gold.  .  .  .  Then  of  a  sudden  the  world 
awoke,  as  dawn  flamed  up. 

And  then  it  was,  as  Looney  Luke  wrote  it  the 
following  night  in  his  book: 

"This  ain't  a  bloomin'  poem,  like  the  other  things 
I  write.  I  don't  know  what  it's  going  to  be — I'm 
writing  through  the  night;  the  kind  of  night  that 
follows  on  a  day  of  tears  and  sighs,  the  kind  of 
night  that  seems  to  say,  'Man's  finished  when  he 
dies.' " 

Here  Luke's  book  showed  a  series  of  crossed-out 
beginnings.  And  then,  suddenly,  the  scrawl  pro- 
ceeded again,  savagely,  spitefully.  .  .  . 

"A  gin-mad  mother  dropped  'er  baby  on  its  'ead. 
...  I  saw,  I  watched — 'er  silly  grin  when  they 
told  'er  it  was  dead.  I  watched  a  muddy  Malay 
once  slit  his  mother  with  a  knife.  And  I  stood 
and  watched  at  Tilbury  when  a  sailor  drowned 
his  wife.  I  see  because  I'm  looking — I  want  to 
look  at  Life. 

"My  eyes  dim  very  often  and  things  have  made 
me  weep,  when  I  parade  my  living  thoughts  at 

143 


144  FURY 

night  upon  the  deep.  But  only  once  in  all  my  life 
I've  asked  my  God  a  query.  And  I've  been  sick 
like  other  men,  and  sad,  in  love  and  weary.  But 
what  could  Boy  have  ever  done,  that  'e  should 
suffer  so  ...  when  Dog  Leyton  went  below?" 

It  must  have  been  some  time  before  Luke  began 
to  write  again,  because  the  pages  were  wet  and 
creased.  Then  started  a  new  page.  .  .  . 

"And  now  to  set  down  what  I  saw  at  dawn,  when 
Boy  looked  down  to  find  his  father  gorn. 

"Slowly  they  came  ahead  .  .  .  and  Captain  Mor- 
gan led  .  .  .  and  right  behind  his  back  .  .  .  under 
the  Union  Jack.  .  .  .  Dog  Leyton,  wrapped  in 
sack  .  .  .  and  shadows  played  at  hide-and-seek,  on 
the  naked  back  of  Zeis  the  Greek  .  .  .  and  I  could 
hear  the  sweet-voiced  sea  sing  'Rock  of  Ages  Cleft 
for  Me.'  ...  A  hairy,  heaving,  troubled  breast  was 
cool  and  still  in  death's  deep  rest  .  .  .  and  night- 
mare's torture  turned  to  sleep  .  .  .  forever  down 
where  sailors  keep  their  peaceful  watch  in  fathoms 
deep. 

"I  smiled  .  .  .  Clancey  riled  .  .  .  and  kicked 
my  ankle  as  they  passed  ahead.  ...  I  did  not 
walk.  ...  I  do  not  follow  dead.  ...  I  stood 
aside  and  watched  them  go  ...  poor,  blinded  hu- 
mans walking  slow  ...  in  Death  there's  never- 
ending  joy.  .  .  .  But  look!  who  follows  last  .  .  . 
it's  Boy! 

"An'  stepping  round  behind  the  hatch  I  knelt, 
and  prayed  awhile,  for  him. 

"When  I  arose  the  sun  was  blazin',  out  to  the 


FUKY  145 

west  the  sea  was  hazin',  as  if  in  respect  it  had 
drawn  its  veil.  ...  I  turned — I  heard  a  long,  low 
wail.  .  .  . 

"The  sea  played  the  organ  to  Hop's  thick  voice; 
Hop's  own  service  had  been  Boy's  choice  .  .  .  only 
because  he  didn't  know  the  difference  from  Allah 
to  Eskimo  .  .  .  and  then  Hop  stopped  and  Morgan 
spoke  curt  ...  an  order  that  cut,  an  order  that 
hurt  .  .  .  and  figures  walked  forward  .  .  .  just 
two.  They  knew  what  they  were  to  do  ...  and 
then  of  a  sudden  that  awful  cry  .  .  .  'Oh,  father, 
me  darlin',  good-by,  good-by !' ' 

Here  many  more  pages  were  missed.  And  then, 
draggily  scrawled  at  the  bottom  of  a  page,  words 
seemed  to  wee  .  „  . 

"I  can't  write  no  more  to-night  .  .  .  winds 
sighin'  .  .  .  I'm  cryin'  .  .  .  poor  Boy!  poor  Boy! 
.  .  .  rollin'  an'  turnin'  .  .  .  temples  a-burnin'  .  .  . 
heartstrings  a-yearnin'  .  .  .  comfort  a-spurnin'  .  .  . 
tossin'  an'  moanin'  down  below.  .  .  ." 

Here  the  scrawl  leaped  suddenly  to  life.  .  .  . 

"Go  on,  Father,  do  it  now  ...  in  spite  of  yer 
presence  my  heart  does  ache.  .  .  .  Go  on,  Father, 
for  Jesus'  sake  ...  I  can't  write  .  .  .  me  fingers 
are  thumbs.  .  .  ." 

Several  lines  were  missed,  and  a  hurried  hand 
had  written  strongly.  .  .  . 

"Thank  you,  my  Father,  here  he  comes.  .  .  ." 

And  then,  as  Looney  Luke  said  afterwards,  Boy 
came  and  sat  beside  him  silently,  the  moon  bathing 
his  white  face,  with  a  curious  light. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  blood  of  every  man  is  salty  like  the  sea. 
But  the  Fury  of  these  sea-drops  of  which 
man  so  largely  is  composed  has  weakened 
with  time.  He  is  glad  to  meet  you  whether  he  is 
or  not ;  he  is  tactful  to  a  point  of  secret  dishonesty 
to  himself;  he  agrees  when  he  does  not  agree;  he 
laughs  when  he  is  not  amused;  he  bows  over  the 
white  hand  of  the  woman  he  does  not  respect. 

With  man  in  these  days  policy  supplants  pas- 
sion, finesse  replaces  Fury.  Man's  Fury  is  abat- 
ing. 

The  British  Fury  of  Ypres,  the  French  Fury  of 
the  Marne,  the  American  Fury  of  Chateau  Thierry 
prove  the  contrary,  you  say?  No;  they  were  not 
Fury,  they  were  ordered  and  prescribed  collective 
energies,  expended  violently,  to  be  sure,  but  with 
method. 

A  war  was  won.  A  world  (all  said  and  some 
still  say)  was  made  safe  for  democracy. 

But  it  was  not  through  Fury  of  attack  or 
counter.  The  war  was  won  because  orders  were 
obeyed.  In  the  chronicles  are  admitted  startling, 
wonderful  bits,  isolated  and  individual  instances 
of  personal  Fury. 

As  the  Americans  in  the  Argonne  who  disobeyed 
their  G.H.Q.  to  obey  their  internal  call;  and  their 

146 


FURY  147 

triumph  in  that  enterprise  will  go  down  into  his- 
tory. It  was  Fury. 

The  single  French  poilu  skewering  enemies  upon 
a  bayonet;  the  little  British  raiding  parties,  of 
three  or  four  men  at  a  time,  and  all  the  aviators, 
were  splendidly  furious. 

But  with  the  collar  and  tie  again  have  come  the 
smile  and  the  lie. 

Man's  Fury  is  abating.  He  does  not  want  to 
fight. 

Man's  muscles  of  resistance  against  women  and 
wine,  the  bet  on  the  race  and  the  other  furious 
pastimes  of  his  fathers,  are  replaced  by  laws. 
Much  exercise  that  might  build  social  strength  thus 
is  checked.  Man  no  longer  needs  to  train  for  life; 
modern  virile  strength  is  principally  of  mind,  use- 
ful in  mathematics,  politics,  Wall  Street  or  stra- 
tegic love  affairs.  Muscle  of  the  body  and  glory 
of  the  soul  seem  not  to  be  considered  necessary. 
Life  has  become  a  generous  sealed  handicap. 

Your  true  sportsman  of  the  past  would  turn 
away  from  the  track  of  to-day — the  track,  or  the 
ring,  or  the  war,  or  the  commerce,  or  the  courtship 
of  to-day — bored,  annoyed  and  enraged. 

The  element  of  chance  is  in  process  of  elimina- 
tion. Another  kind  of  race  is  on :  the  race  to  the 
handicapper's  ear.  It  is  a  race  of  whispered  wit, 
of  sinister  handshakes,  of  subtle  traffickings  in 
honor,  of  sacrifice  of  sentiment  for  gold  or  the  ad- 
vertising modernly  named  Glory — a  race  without 
Fury. 


148  PUKY 

Sprinkled  lightly  about  the  world,  however,  are 
to  be  found  places  where  the  sun  of  impulse  still 
shines  upon  plains,  among  mountains  and  espe- 
cially upon  the  rolling  decks  of  the  real  ships,  man 
still  breathes  and  lives  in  the  mental  and  physical 
simplicity  for  which  God  made  him,  a  creature  of 
truth,  love,  hate  .  .  .  and  Fury. 


CHAPTER  III 

SEVERAL  knots  of  sea  had  whirled  the  log 
before  Boy  spoke.  Looney  Luke  watched  him 
silently  .  .  .  furiously.  Boy's  eyes,  no  longer 
wet,  glinted  unusually ;  his  figure  that  had  drooped 
in  sorrow  now  was  straight ;  the  slow,  grief -numbed 
movement  of  limb  had  been  replaced  by  quick,  lithe 
grace;  and  the  voice,  no  longer  thick,  rang  out 
clearly. 

"Luke,  ye  were  fine!     Thank  ye,  Luke!" 

Boy's  cool,  firm  hand  gripped  gratefully. 

Luke's  God  answered  prayers!  .  .  .  Boy  had 
never  looked  so  splendid,  Luke  was  positive,  and, 
as  he  arose,  even  the  moon,  admiring  him  humbly 
played  calcium  and  lit  him  to  advantage. 

Then  her  hero  and  Luke's  in  the  center  of  that 
tiny  stage,  the  deck,  stepped  to  the  rail  and  looked 
off. 

The  night  was  beautiful,  perfect.  The  pulse  of 
Nature  throbbed  normally  again.  Boy  and  the  sea 
and  the  perfect  night,  Luke  thought.  But  quickly 
he  knew  better. 

There  was  a  new  touch  of  marble;  no,  of  steel, 
in  Boy's  splendor,  as  Luke  now  comprehended  it 
.  .  .  and  he  did  comprehend. 

Boy  knew  better  even  than  Luke  that  large 
things  had  happened  in  him. 

A  new-lit  glint  was  in  those  eyes  that  peered  into 

149 


150  FUKY 

a  future  changed  beyond  the  power  of  recognition. 
It  was  as  if,  Boy  thought,  it  was  another's  life  into 
which  he  had  been  shifted  by  magic. 

Yesterday  he  had  seen  ahead  Min  and  love  no 
further  off  than  Leith.  To-day  they  were  immeas- 
urably distant.  For  impending  periods  of  uncer- 
tain length  he  must  do  stealthy  searching  with  a 
killing  at  its  end! 

Really  there  was  no  Min,  any  more;  there  was 
only  another  man,  identity  unknown  as  yet,  who 
must  be  found  and  forthwith  slain  because  a 
sailor's  oath  had  been  recorded  before  the  Notary 
of  Death. 

Hate  in  Boy's  eyes  as  the  puzzled  Luke  looked 
at  them?  No!  Passion?  No?  In  them  the  calm 
and  solid  look  of  a  man  resolved.  It  seemed,  Luke 
thought,  to  attract  the  sea,  which,  like  a  great  lady 
at  an  ancient  joust,  lay  back  and  waved  her  fan, 
and,  smiling,  blew  a  kiss  to  the  fighter  whom  she 
loved. 

Luke  moved  away  and  hid  in  the  dark  fo'c'sle. 

Boy,  by  himself  on  deck,  also  was  conscious  of 
the  sea's  momentary  lazy  femininity.  He,  too,  felt 
that  she  was  watching  him  with  careless  interest, 
idly  urging  him  along  to  the  small  tragedy  which 
must  be  so  great  to  him  .  .  .  urging  him  while,  at 
the  same  time,  another  voice  within  his  soul  tor- 
mented him  by  whispering:  "Min  .  .  .  Min  .  .  . 
Min!" 

Perhaps  the  greatest  tragedy  of  every  war  is  that 
as  each  fighter  marches  toward  Glory  for  a  Cause 


FUKY  151 

the  memory-ghost  of  some  dear  woman  drags  at 
him  and  drags  at  him  and  tries  to  drag  him  back 
to  a  forgetfulness  of  Duty,  whispering  in  his  ear 
some  musical,  loved  name,  as  something  whispered 
now  to  Boy,  unceasingly  (even  while  the  other 
words  were  whirling  in  his  soul)  :  "Min  .  .  .  Min 
.  .  .  Min!" 

"Swear  yer  will  marry  nobody,  do  nothin',  until 
— "  the  wash  repeated  carefully,  succinctly,  never 
changing  a  word  by  accident,  trying  never  to  leave 
a  second  in  which  Boy  might  lay  aside  the  burden 
of  his  oath;  but  his  soul's  plea:  "Min  .  .  .  Min 
.  .  .  Min!"  was  never  drowned. 

The  voice  of  the  wash  was  steady,  unemotional, 
persistent ;  and  Boy  knew  that  that  wash — or  some- 
thing— would  say  that  forever  .  .  .  forever  .  .  . 
unless  .  .  .  No,  no;  not  forever!  Only  until  * 
wife-thief  gasped  and  paid! 

The  wash  would  know  when  Boy  had  kept  his 
oath;  it  always  knew;  and  when  it  knew,  then  it 
would  say: 

"Well  done  .  .  .  well  done  .  .  .  well  done!" 

And  it  would  say  that  forever,  too ;  the  wash  was 
fair. 

Even  when  Boy,  later,  was  wrapped  tight  below 
and  trying  to  sleep  the  stern  sea  ordered  him: 
"You've  got  it  to  do !  You've  got  it  to  do !  You've 
got  it  to  do!"  and  his  dead  father  commanded: 
"Swear  you  will  marry  nobody  ...  do  nothin' 
.  .  .  until — ";  and  through  it  all  his  own  soul 
sobbed  in  agony:  "Min  .  .  .  Min  .  .  .  Min!" 


152  FURY 

Would  the  North  Sea  whisper  to  him  after  he 
had  trod  the  paths  of  tragedy:  "Well  done  .  .  . 
well  done,"  and  when  he  had  lost  all  through  the 
fulfillment  of  his  oath  would  it  matter  to  him 
whether  it  did  or  not? 

Now,  when  his  soul  whispered,  "Min  .  .  .  Min 
.  .  .  Min !"  the  sea  along  the  freeboard,  just  above 
his  head,  chuckled. 

Min  would  be  in  Leith  waiting,  by  now. 

Why  had  Dog  Leyton  said:  "Do  not  marry 
until—" 

Had  he  meant,  Don't  marry  Min?  He  had 
known  that  Min  was  waiting  at  Leith  for  Boy. 
He  had  known  that,  right  enough,  because  he  had 
said  he  knew  it.  Why  "don't  marry?" 

Death  does  not  wait  for  waning  Life  to  give  its 
reasons. 

"Swear  yer  will  marry  nobody  until — ,"  the  wash 
repeated  firmly. 

And  he  had  sworn  the  oath!  Poor  Min!  Poor 
Boy! 

For  a  sailor's  oath  is  a  sailor's  oath  and  when  a 
thing  must  be  it  must  be.  Yer  don't  blabber,  yer 
don't  talk,  yer  just  do !  That  was  that. 

Following  this  reflection  the  wash  was  quieter, 
as  if  it  felt  that  it  might  cease  its  whispering  be- 
cause it  had  served  its  purpose  perfectly. 

Min  would  have  to  be  brave,  too.  And  she  would 
be.  Min  had  been  trained  in  Bravery's  school. 
Her  curious  courage  had  come  to  her  from  the 


FURY  153 

breast  of  that  ghost-mother  who  had  fought  against 
her  tragic  coming. 

Yes,  she'd  be  brave  all  right,  Min  would!  She 
had  her  honor,  too;  there  wasn't  no  one  in  the 
world  with  more  honor  than  Min!  And  she'd 
bow,  swing  her  all  ...  her  love  .  .  .  her  hope 
.  .  .  her  dreams  .  .  .  yes,  and  her  babies  would 
be  younger  when  she  died  in  consequence,  perhaps 
a  year,  perhaps  two  ,  .  .  and  then  perhaps  no 
babies  at  all. 

For  him,  either.  No  crinkling,  wonderful  pink 
things  to  toddle  to  Boy  and  call  him  "Daddy !" 

But  Min  would  support  him  in  the  keeping  of  a 
sailors  oath;  she  was  of  the  sea;  of  the  deep  sea; 
and  to  one  of  the  sea  an  oath  to  the  dead.  .  .  . 
Yes;  Min  would  bow. 

Boy  did  not  know  that  Pinkie  had  said  those 
things  to  Min  on  the  train  about  sticking  tight 
and  all  that. 

How  could  he?  He  was  at  sea  when  that  had 
happened  and  when  Pinkie  on  land  had  pulled  a 
lever  at  dawn  that  morning,  to  pass  on  to  God 
another  boy  who  had  avenged.  It  all  had  hap- 
pened at  just  about  the  time  that  Boy  had  watched 
something  else  pass  out  of  sight  forever. 

So  of  course  Boy  had  not  heard  those  last  words 
of  Pinkie's  to  Min— "stick  tight!"  At  that  mo- 
ment he  had  been  kneeling  .  .  .  swearing  before 
his  dying  father. 

But  he  knew  that  if  she  did  stick  tight  it  would 


154  FURY 

be  a  grim  and  not  a  joyous  thing  as  they  had 
thought.  But  he  believed  she'd  stick. 

He  did  not  know  that  or  anything;  she  did  not 
know;  nobody  knew.  Who  knows  anything,  any- 
way? 

Perhaps  the  sea  does  .  .  .  and  always  has  .  .  . 
and  did.  At  any  rate  now  she  whispered  .  .  . 
"Min!  .  Min!"  .  .  and  chuckled. 


PART  V 

"I  know  now  what  the  witches  said 

To  Macbeth  on  the  heath, 
And  why  some  people  should  be  dead; 
I  learned  a  lot  in  Leith." 

— LOONBY  LUKE'S  POEMS 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  Thistle  Hotel,  Waterfront,  Leith,  Scot- 
land, very  old  and  very  small,  from  the  out- 
side looked  dirty  and  sulky  in  the  drizzling 
rain  at  seven  o'clock  of  the  morning  following  the 
arrival  of  a  certain  lady  guest  from  London. 

But  inside  could  be  heard  the  cheery  crackling 
of  a  fire  new  lit  in  the  saloon  bar,  the  rattle  of  cups 
and  saucers  and  spoons,  the  general  music  of  break- 
fast, all  harmonizing  nicely  with  the  distant  voice 
of  the  lady  singing  upstairs. 

It  smelt  of  stale  beer  and  smoke;  but  still  it  was 
warm  and  homey  inside,  even  when  the  voice  of 
the  lady  upstairs  fell  into  silence  after  a  bang  of 
a  distant  door. 

In  the  saloon  bar,  which  was  a  room  and  not 
actually  a  bar,  Mrs.  Ross,  the  proprietress,  busied 
herself  with  table  cloth,  spoons  and  marmalade- 
pot.  She  was  not  fat,  as  she  should  have  been, 
this  Mrs.  Ross,  and  she  did  not  wear  diamonds  in 
the  morning  as  the  proprietress  of  an  hotel  should 
have  done.  Instead,  she  was  gaunt,  and  gray,  and 
dressed  in  black. 

She  placed  on  the  table  between  a  knife  and  fork 
a  piece  of  paper  with  something  written  upon  it. 
She  was  pleased.  It  had  been  four  years  since  the 

word  "Hotel,"  painted  large  outside,  had  been  jus- 
is: 


158  FURY 

tified  by  The  Thistle.  Folk  only  came  there  to 
drink  and  fight,  in  spite  of  cards  hung  promi- 
nently, signed  "Mrs.  Angus  Ross,  proprietress,"  to 
state  the  fact  that  one  might  also  sleep  for  mod- 
erate prices  in  the  venerable  building. 

But  now  it  was  a  hotel  in  truth  again.  Did  it 
not  possess  a  lady  house-guest  from  London?  The 
gallant  Angus  Ross,  of  the  Black  Watch,  killed  at 
Arras  for  his  King,  the  Angus  whose  picture  in  full 
uniform  hung  over  the  fire,  seemed  to  smile  whim- 
sically at  his  wife's  pleasure.  At  any  rate  the  fire- 
glow  played  flickeringly  round  and  about  his  firm 
mouth. 

The  lady  house-guest  was  a  "wee,  sparre  bairn," 
and  yet  ate  a  large  amount  of  everything.  Lon- 
doners were  funny.  They  ate  and  yet  they  were 
thin.  They  sang  when  they  were  sad  (not  that 
the  lady  guest  was  sad ;  oh,  no ! )  but  she  sang  all 
the  time  and  one  cannot  be  that  happy.  They  have 
money  which  they  take  care  every  one  shall  see,  and 
yet  bargain  over  a  ha'penny  cookie.  Strange  crea- 
tures, truly,  Londoners! 

But  people  from  other  countries  were  different, 
naturally.  There  was  only  one  Scotland  in  the 
world ! 

This  lady  guest,  this  winsome  wee  lassie,  cer- 
tainly was  too  happy  for  Leith.  What  was  the 
use  of  being  happy?  It  only  made  your  sadness 
sadder  when  it  came,  as  it  was  sure  to.  But  then, 
Londoners  didn't  know  much  anyway.  How  could 
they?  They're  not  Scotch! 


FUEY  159 

"Good  morning,  Mrs.  Ross !"  a  piping  voice  said 
seriously.  "It  ain't  arf  a  mornin',  ain't  it  ...  fer 
the  ducks !"  The  voice  laughed  heartily  at  its  own 
joke  and  Miss  Brent,  the  lady  house-guest  from 
London,  went  to  the  fire  and  warmed  her  clean, 
red  hands. 

"It's  rainin'  oot,  lassie,  ye  were  sayin'?" 

"Yes;  blimey,  what  a  day  fer  the  ole  man  ter 
come  'ome  ter  'is  ole  woman!"  This  thought 
seemed  to  make  Min  very  happy. 

"An'  what  auld  folk  werre  ye  referrin'  to, 
lassie?" 

"Eh?"  Min  looked  blank.  The  old  lady  talked 
like  somebody  falling  downstairs.  What  was  she 
driving  at? 

And  the  very  Scotch  Mrs.  Eoss  left  the  room. 
Why  wait  to  hear  the  answer?  It  didn't  matter. 

The  odor  of  bacon  kissed  Min's  nose,  and  the  siz- 
zling song  of  frying  eggs  wafted  in  from  the 
kitchen,  filling  the  entr'acte  until  Mrs.  Ross  re- 
turned, with  a  large  teapot. 

"I  will  be  havin'  me  oon  breakfast  her-re  wi'  ye, 
if  ye've  no  obje-e-ection,  Miss  Br-rent!" 

Blimey !  This  was  the  goods,  all  right !  If  Min 
had  no  objection!  She'd  lain  in  bed  until  hunger 
bade  her  rise,  and  dressing  with  care,  singing,  she'd 
wondered  several  times  if  it  was  all  a  dream.  She 
has  also  touched  wood. 

But  here  she  was,  smelling  bacon,  hearing  eggs, 
seeing  tea,  warmed  by  a  fire,  nothing  to  do  but  eat 
a  lot,  sit  by  that  fire,  talk  a  lot,  dream  a  lot  and 


160  FUEY 

wait  for  Boy — her  Boy — to  come  and  splice  her. 

She  had  some  brass  in  her  bag,  too;  she  could 
buy  something  if  she  wanted  to ;  a  beautiful  hat  if 
she'd  a  mind  to  walk  a  bit;  a  brolley  to  push  up 
if  it  was  still  raining.  This  week's  Heartsease 
novel  was  lying,  casual-like,  on  the  bed  upstairs; 
there  was  a  bathroom,  with  a  bath  in  that  you 
could  sit  down  in,  for  tuppence  a  go! 

And  Min  had  had  her  two-pennorth  of  that  all 
right,  last  night.  Two  hours  for  tuppence  and 
she'd  nearly  fallen  asleep,  there  in  the  water. 
She'd  sat  down  slow,  so  that  the  warm  wet  came 
up  her  body  creepy  like.  She'd  only  been  in  a 
bath  that  you  could  sit  in  once  before.  But 
you've  got  to  have  it  rough  to  get  it  really  smooth 
afterwards.  And  this  was  smooth  all  right.  Here 
was  the  lady  what  owned  the  place  saying  with  her 
own  mouth  to  Min: 

"If  you've  no  objection." 

If  Min  had  no  objection!  Ha,  ha!  that  was  a 
funny  one! 

Min  didn't  answer.  You  could  have  knocked  her 
over  with  a  feather. 

Mrs.  Boss  hadn''t  waited  for  her  to  answer,  so 
Min  sat  down  in  the  place,  the  one  opposite  from 
the  fire,  and  then  Mrs.  Boss  entered  with  break- 
fast. 

What  a  breakfast!  Bacon,  eggs,  scones,  marma- 
lade, tea  and  as  much  as  you  could  get  down  of  it ! 

Min  ate  in  silence  and  Mrs.  Ross  ate  one  muffin 
with  some  butter  on  it,  and  was  on  her  second  cup 


FURY  161 

of  tea  when  somebody  tapped  with  a  penny  on  the 
public  bar,  which  was  just  through  the  door  from 
the  saloon.  Mrs.  Ross  rose  and  said,  "Excuse  me," 
to  Min,  who  couldn't  think  quickly  enough  of  the 
right  answer,  so  that  Mrs.  Ross,  taking  things  for 
granted,  had  left  before  Min  said: 

"Don't  mensh,  ma'am!" 

Then  she  heard  a  woman's  voice  in  the  next  bar 
say:  "Two  of  rum,  cold." 

Min  shuddered.  That  was  Ma  Brent's  eye- 
opener  in  the  morning.  Only  not  two  of  rum,  cold ; 
oh,  no,  my  dear — six  of  rum,  cold,  if  you  please, 
was  far  more  like  it. 

She  heard  Mrs.  Ross  say: 

"It's  very  early,  Tillie,  won't  you  take  a  cup  of 
tea  instead?  Have  it  on  the  house  to  warm  your 
stomach?" 

She  was  a  good  old  sport,  this  'ere  Mrs.  Ross  was. 

"Tea!"  the  thick  voice  of  the  other  woman  rang 
out,  scornfully.  "Tea!" 

Then  the  voice  muffled  down  and  Min  heard  the 
clink  of  a  bottle  and  glass  and  the  tinkle  of  the 
bell  in  the  cash  register. 

Min  was  still  eating  when  Mrs.  Ross  returned. 

"Another  egg,  lassie?" 

Min,  with  her  mouth  full,  nodded.  She  felt 
warm,  her  ear  was  burning,  the  left  one ;  Boy  was 
talking  of  her. 

Of  course  he  was!  What  else  would  he  talk 
about?  She  caught  sight  of  a  piece  of  paper  in 
front  of  her,  as  she  lifted  her  plate  for  the  egg. 


162  FURY 

She  picked  it  up  with  her  other  hand.    It  read  like 
this: 

One  Day's  Board  and  Room 3/6 

One  Bath,  Special 6 

Heel  of  Shoe  Repaired,  paid  for  at  bar. . .   l/- 


Accounts  rendered  daily. 

What  was  the  extra  fourpence  for  on  the  bath? 

Oh,  well!  The  lady  guest  from  London  smiled 
tolerantly.  She  smiled  at  the  serious  face  of  Mrs. 
Ross,  and  said  lightly: 

"You  ain't  arf  Scotch,  all  right,  are  yer?" 

But  what  did  fourpence  matter?  Pshaw!  She'd 
got  a  lot  more  fourpences  left. 

She  pushed  away  her  plate  and  leaned  back  with 
a  contented  sigh.  Her  tummy  pushed  against  her 
waist  belt.  The  clock  struck  eight.  The  penny 
tapped  again  on  the  bar,  and  again  Mrs.  Ross  left; 
this  time  she  did  not  say  "Excuse  me." 

Heigh  ho!  What  strange  things  manners  are! 
Sometimes  you  do,  and  then  sometimes  you  don't. 
Min  didn't  care  much.  Heigh  ho !  She  was  up  in 
society;  yes,  she  was  that  right  enough;  but  when 
you're  full  to  the  brim,  contented,  you  don't  worry 
much  about  what  any  one  does  or  says. 

She  sighed  again.  She  felt  so  well.  She  could 
hear  the  bottle  and  glass  again  in  the  public  bar, 
and  then  some  more  people  talking.  Men,  sailors 
by  the  sound  of  them.  A  boat  was  in.  Then,  sud- 
denly the  thought!  The  Lady  Spray  perhaps! 


FURY  163 

Peeping  through  the  door  she  saw  four  strange 
sailors  and  one  old  totter,  the  old  lady  whom  Mrs. 
Ross  had  called  Tillie;  crazy  old  thing  she  looked, 
with  her  back  towards  her. 

The  sailors  were  drunk  already  and  were  chip- 
ping Tillie,  who  grinned  and  said  something  which 
Min  understood  well  enough,  but  which  made  her 
shudder,  all  the  same;  the  kind  of  talking  that 
didn't  go  well  on  top  of  a  beautiful  breakfast  and 
a  burning  ear  from  the  Boy  what  was  coming 
home  to-day. 

She  turned  away,  and  singing  passed  upstairs. 

And  her  voice  was  the  voice  of  the  lady  who  was 
singing  upstairs  earlier  in  the  morning. 

Across  the  bed  in  her  room  lay  her  trousseau — 
a  nightgown,  pink,  with  ribbons  in  it,  and  two  other 
garments  that  you  don't  talk  of,  let  alone  write 
about,  but  very  pretty  all  the  same. 

These  latter  had  to  be  threaded  with  ribbon.  So 
sticking  some  dainty  pink  ribbon  to  the  eye  of  a 
darning  needle,  with  a  firm  hand,  Minnie  started 
to  work,  singing: 

"Father  got  the  sack  from  the  water-works, 
Through  smoking  his  little,  cherry  briar; 
The  foreman  said  he  had  done  wrong, 
'Cause  he  might  'ave  set  the  water-works  on  fire." 

Minnie  laughed.  Bloomin'  funny  song  that  was ! 
Ha,  ha !  She  always  laughed  when  she  sang  it,  she 
did.  Her  and  Boy  had  heard  it  together,  down  at 
the  Poplar  Hippodrome.  A  beautiful  lady  sang 


164  FUKY 

it,  with  feathers  and  ribbons,  like  .  .  .  yes,  just 

like  Min  was  now. 

"'E  might  'ave  set  the  water-works  on  fire!" 
Ha,  ha!     Bloomin'  funny!     She  laughed  again. 

She  always   did   when   she   sang  it.     When   she 

finished  laughing  she  sighed.    Gawd !    She  was  the 

happy  one,  all  right. 


CHAPTER  II 

IT  was  three  o'clock.  The  rain  had  not  abated, 
but  The  Lady  Spray  really  was  in.  Morgan, 
and  Mr.  Hop  had  gone  to  the  company's  office 
and  only  a  few  of  the  crew  were  off.  There  was 
little  gossip  about  Morgan.  He  was  due  to  be 
Master  all  right. 

Clancey  caught  up  with  Boy  walking  down  the 
waterfront  toward  The  Thistle. 

"What's  up,  Boy?  You  look  as  though  you'd 
broke  a  winder." 

Boy  did  not  answer.  They  were  passing  The 
Robin  Hood,  a  tiny  pub  where  the  beer  was  good, 
and  Clancey  said:  "Come  in  an'  'ave  one,  Mr.  L." 

Boy  stopped.  He  did  not  drink,  but  he  was 
afraid  to  go  on  to  The  Thistle  alone.  No,  not 
afraid,  but  .  .  . 

He  allowed  Clancey  to  take  his  arm  and  pull  him 
into  The  Robin  Hood's  stuffy  bar. 

Clancey  said,  "Hello !"  all  round  and  grinned  at 
the  tall,  blonde  barmaid. 

"  'Ello,  Mildred  oP  girl !  I'm  travelin'  in  society. 
I  got  Mr.  Leyton,  second  mate,  'long  with  me." 

Mildred  extended  across  the  bar  a  large  white 
hand  with  rings  on  it  and  Boy,  after  looking  at  it 
for  a  moment,  took  hold  of  it  and  shook  it  up  and 
down  about  twice. 

165 


166  FURY 

"What's  yer  pleasure,  Mr.  Ley  ton?  Delighted, 
I'm  sure." 

"Ginger  beer,  please." 

"Stone's?  Or  White's?  Which  d'yer  prefer, 
Mr.  Ley  ton?" 

"Oh,  I  dunno ;  just  ginger  beerll  do." 

Clancey  lit  a  Woodbine. 

"We  ain't  pertickler,  sweetheart.  Make  mine  a 
bitter  in  a  tankard,  will  yer?" 

Clancey  felt  pretty  good.  Why  shouldn't  he? 
He'd  like  to  know  why  not.  He'd  had  a  couple  and 
there  wasn't  a  blinking  cloud  on  his  horizon,  not 
as  he  could  see. 

Never  had  been.  He  just  went  on,  and  drank  a 
bit,  and  swore  all  the  time,  shaved  occasionally, 
and  loved  the  girls,  old  or  young,  according  to  the 
degrees  of  his  intoxication.  Old  'uns  would  put 
up  with  most  anything.  Young  'uns — well,  you 
have  to  be  alive ;  you  can  be  drunk,  but  you  got  to 
be  merry  drunk.  The  young  'uns  wouldn't  hold 
you  up  from  falling  down,  unless  it  was  one  who 
loved  you,  and  then  she'd  hold  on  forever ;  and  who 
in  the  name  of  Satan  wanted  any  one  in  love  with 
'im  hanging  on  all  the  time?  And  then  who  in  the 
name  of  Satan  would  be  falling  in  love  with 
Clancey? 

So  there  it  was,  and  there  was  Clancey,  talking 
quietly  to  Mildred  the  bar-maid,  and  glancing  again 
and  again  furtively  round  at  Boy  who  had  stepped 
over  to  gaze  absently  at  some  pictures  on  the  walls 
of  ships  at  sea. 


FURY  167 

"We  dropped  'is  ole  man  over,  a  day  ago.  He's 
a  bit  down,  the  boy  is.  Shove  a  good  slog  of  gin 
in  that  ginger  beer;  'e  won't  know  no  differ- 
ent." 

Mildred  had  already  noted  Boy's  eyes.  She 
liked  dark  eyes.  She  tried  to  darken  her  own. 

"But  if  the  young  man  don't  drink,  Mr. 
Clancey!"  she  remonstrated. 

Clancey  spoke  quickly:  "G'wan,  Mil,  it'll  do  'im 
good.  He's  in  bad  weather,  an'  it'll  buck  'im  up 
a  bit.  G'wan.  Don't  say  nothin'.  'Ere's  a  shillin' 
for  it." 

Boy  came  back  to  the  bar.  His  throat  was  dry 
and  the  ginger-beer  looked  wet.  He  drained  his 
glass.  He  was  dry,  all  right. 

"Give  us  a  Woodbine,  Clancey,  an'  fill  'em  up 
again,  Miss,  please." 

"The  same,  Mr.  Leyton?" 

"Yes,  I  reckon  so.    WThat  about  it,  Clancey?" 

"Oh,  the  same,  my  darlin'  angel" ;  and  Clancey 
leaned  across  and  touched  Mildred's  red  cheek 
meaningly.  And  then  turning  to  Boy  he  spoke: 

"You're  gettin'  a  reg'lar  land  lad,  smokin'  an' 
every  thin',  now  the  old  'un's  gone." 

Boy  turned.  "Oh,  it  gives  yer  somethin'  ter  do. 
A  bloke  looks  stronger  with  a  fag  or  a  pipe  in  'is 
mouth." 

Clancey  thought  for  a  moment.  He  seldom 
thought,  but  he  often  looked  as  if  he  might  be 
thinking.  He  spoke  conversationally,  throatily,  in 
the  voice  he  had  used  when  he  had  said :  "Thank 


168  FURY 

you  all,  very  kindly,  I'm  sure,"  once,  at  the  Buf- 
falos'  Lodge,  in  Limehouse.  It  was  his  best  voice. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,  Mr.  L. ;  now  ter  my  way  of 
thinkin'  a  cigar  carried  proper  in  yer  mouth  tops 
yer  off  right  like."  He  turned  to  the  bar-maid. 
"Give  us  a  couple  of  tup'ny  stinkers,  Mil." 

The  drinks  and  cigars  arrived  together. 

Boy's  ginger  beer  tasted  a  little  bitterer  even 
than  before.  Clancey's  other  shilling  slipped 
nimbly  under  the  cigar-box,  indicating  to  the  very 
fly  Mildred  that  she  must  charge  Boy  only  for  one 
bitter  and  one  ginger  ale,  and  not  for  the  gin. 

Then  some  one  came  and  spoke  to  Clancey,  a  girl 
with  a  certain  kind  of  face,  under  a  certain  kind 
of  tam-o'-shanter  drawn  sharply  over  one  eye,  and 
high  black  boots,  dirty  and  with  some  buttons  off. 
Clancey  put  his  arm  around  her  thin  waist,  and 
drew  her  forward  to  Boy. 

"  'Ere  y'are,  Mr.  L.  'Ere^s  a  picture  for  yer. 
Love  yer  Clan,  do  yer?  You're  a  bunny  lassie,  all 
right.  'Ave  a  spot  with  Clan,  will  yer?" 

The  girl  of  course  assented  and  Clancey  com- 
menced whispering  to  her.  She  struggled  free  and 
giggled.  He  took  a  step  to  her  and  drew  her  away 
from  Boy,  still  whispering,  with  a  look  in  his  eye 
that  some  men  have  sometimes. 

Boy  leaned  against  the  bar.  He  was  throbbing. 
He  did  not  drink;  he  never  had;  but  now  he  had 
and  didn't  know  it.  He  only  knew  that  he  had  a 
burning  desire  to  think,  and  his  thoughts  were  con- 


FURY  169 

fusedly  tumbling  and  pushing  each  other  over  and 
around  in  his  brain. 

What  was  the  first  step?    What? 

He  had  not  lighted  his  cigar;  he  would  save  it. 
He  felt  different,  stronger,  less  afraid  to  go  to  The 
Thistle, — The  Thistle  where  Min  was  waiting. 

He  took  mental  reckoning  and  found  where  he 
was  now,  but  .  .  .  still,  he  didn't  quite  know 
where  he  was,  although  he  had  known  that  just 
that  very  instant  when  he  had  taken  his  reckoning. 

What  would  he  say  first  to  Min?  No;  he 
wouldn't  think  of  that  part  first.  He  couldn't 
think  of  those  things.  You  can't  think  about 
them.  He'd  think  of  that  when  the  time  came. 
But  it  didn't  hurt  to  think  of  the  job  he  was  t& 
do,  to  "find  the  one  that  took  her." 

Gawd!  The  bloke  what  took  his  mother!  The 
one  that  caused  everything! 

His  father  would  have  lived  another  twenty 
years  if  that  thing  hadn't  happened  and  would 
have  been  a  lot  different,  probably ;  and  Boy  would 
have  had  a  mother  to  kiss  and  say  "Mother"  to. 

Another  ginger  beer  appeared  at  his  elbow. 
Clancey  was  treating  again,  and  Boy  was  thirsty. 
He  drank  half  of  it. 

"I  gave  'im  a  good  one  that  time,"  Mildred  whis- 
pered to  Clancey.  "He  looks  so  sad,  poor  laddie !" 

The  girl  in  the  tam-o'-shanter  looked  across  at 
Boy  who  was  looking  at  nothing. 

"Now,  now,  flirty,  flirty!" 


170  FUEY 

Clancey  engaged  her  attention  again;  but  from 
the  corner  of  her  eye  she  watched,  attracted  by 
Boy,  who  was  perfectly  still,  looking  at  nothing. 

A  mother  to  kiss  and  say  "Mother"  to.  Yes, 
Boy  would  have  loved  that. 


CHAPTER  III 

IN  the  dim  days  to  come  when  school  children 
will  hear  about  kings  and  titles  that  existed 
through  these  ancient  times  when  the  flood 
and  the  great  war,  Nero  and  Edison,  lie  snugly 
together,  page  on  page  in  future  history  books, 
God,  the  King  of  Kings,  will  stfll  be  bidding 
woman  kneel  and,  touching  her  upon  the  shoulder, 
will  be  bidding  her  Rise  .  .  .  Mother! 

Thus  then  as  now  the  greatest  title  of  all  time 
(in  the  eyes  of  God  Almighty  and  good  men)  will 
still  be  spoken  .  .  .  Mother! 

Men  will  leave  her  at  home,  they'll  kiss  her, 
they'll  forget  her,  they'll  love  her,  they'll  abuse 
her,  they'll  worship  her;  perhaps,  in  those  days, 
even  if  she  be  one  who,  like  Minnie's  mother,  fails 
to  register  before  God  or  the  Law,  the  intention 
of  becoming  Mother  and  get  a  license,  they  will 
lift  her  into  a  great  Parliament  of  all  Parliaments, 
an  uppermost  of  all  governing  chambers,  the  House 
of  Mothers! 

Perhaps  they  will,  perhaps  they  won't.  But 
she'll  be  Mother  all  the  same — a  good  mother  or 
a  bad  mother. 

The  word  Mother  bridges  the  entire  expanse  be- 
tween the  elements  of  the  best  good  and  the  worst 
bad.  Your  good  Mother  is  the  nearest  thing  on 

171 


172  P  U  E  Y 

earth  to  God ;  your  bad  Mother  is  the  nearest  thing 
on  earth  to  Hell  and  its  governing  power. 

Oh,  child,  always  her  baby!  Our  Mother!  yours 
and  mine!  Look  into  her  eyes,  or  ... 

If  she  is  with  God,  close  your  eyes  and  ask  Him 
to  place  her  again  in  your  memory  as  she  was. 
He'll  lend  her ;  of  course  he  will.  She  is  still  yours 
and  always  will  be  yours,  waiting  for  you,  her  arms 
outstretched  .  .  .  those  sweet  limbs  that  perhaps 
you  yourself  crossed  upon  her  still,  cool  breast. 
But  when  you  find  them  waiting  you  will  know 
that  all  the  time  they  have  been  warm  and  strong 
(there  in  Eternity)  for  you. 

If  she  still  lives  and  you  lately  have  not  seen 
her,  go  to  her  and  look  into  her  eyes  and  find  there 
that  which  you  have  longed  for  while  you  have 
been  out  in  the  world.  Hold  her  hand  very  gently, 
pause  a  moment,  then  say  these  words: 

"I  love  you,  my  Mother !" 

She  will  turn  and  you  will  find  that  peace  will 
come  and  fears  will  pass.  You  will  live  again. 

Is  she  waiting  now  to  hear  the  voice  of  one  of 
us  exclaim:  "I  love  you,  my  Mother"?  or  to  open 
a  telegram :  "I  love  you,  my  Mother"?  Or  to  hear 
God  say:  ''Your  son  or  your  daughter  have  been 
saying,  down  on  earth,  and  deeply  thinking,  *I  love 
you,  my  Mother !'  " 

How  can  her  parting  diminish  her  use,  her  love! 
She  is  your  birthright;  she  is  your  Mother  still, 
always  your  Mother. 

Her  breath  will  brush  your  cheek  and  then  that 


FURY  173 

cheek  will  rest  upon  her  hair.  She  will  tuck  the 
bedclothes  around  your  back,  if  the  night  is  cold, 
and  open  wide  the  window  upon  summer  nights — 
however  many  summers  old  you  are — and  when 
you  tell  her  what  you've  done,  and  what  you're 
going  to  do  and  what  you've  heard  folks  say  of 
you,  pride  will  light  her  eyes.  She  will  not  speak 
at  once,  perhaps  because  she  cannot,  but  always 
she  will  understand  and  never  will  she  think  you 
boast.  And  if  pain  racks  you  or  you  sorrow,  if 
you  are  in  agony  of  mind  or  soul,  oh,  she  will  com- 
fort you. 

Then  you  want  to  doze  to  the  music  of  her  sweet 
"Good  Night,  and  God  bless  you,  my  darling!" 
And  she  will  tiptoe  away — and  turn  and  look  back 
at  you  from  the  door. 

Mother  of  God,  Mother  of  you  and  Mother  of 
me,  Mother  of  all  men  .  .  .  gray,  pink  and  white, 
gentle,  soft  and  beautiful!  Her  hands  are  warm, 
however  cold  they  are;  to  steal  to  her  and  kiss  her 
is  to  tiptoe  up  to  God  and  kiss  Him. 

Mother,  my  own  Mother  .  .  .  how  I  love  you! 


CHAPTER  IT 

A  MOTHER  to  kiss  and  say  "Mother"  to  ... 
yes ;  Boy  would  have  loved  that ! 

He  drained  the  rest  of  his  ginger  beer  and 
stood  up.  He  must  find  his  mother  first.  She  was 
in  Leith;  he  knew  that;  but  why  hadn't  his  father 
told  him  where  in  Leith?  There  were  so  many 
things  he  should  have  asked,  but  it  was  too  late 
now  .  .  .  too  late! 

In  his  pocket,  a  hundred  and  forty  pounds,  his 
father's  fortune  .  .  .  his ;  but  his  father's  first  for 
his  task — wherever  that  man  was  he  must  find  him 
and  then  .  .  .  kill! 

Kill?  Did  his  father  mean  kill?  That  would 
mean  escape  after;  escape  into  silence;  or  perhaps 
arrest  and  death  for  himself  and  a  broken  heart  for 
Min.  Poor  Min — her  heart  was  going  to  break, 
anyway!  Why  .  .  .  why? 

Had  his  father  thought  that  out?  Was  that  why 
he  put  the  marriage  thing  in  the  oath  .  .  .  out  of 
consideration  for  Min?  He'd  called  her  dirty, 
though. 

Boy's  mouth  tightened.  The  gin  surged  and  bit- 
tered  his  mood. 

Kill?  What  for?  Two  deaths  didn't  make  a  life. 
Luke  had  whispered  that.  But  Luke  hadn't  lost  a 
mother  and  a  father  through  one  man.  And  Luke 
hadn't  sworn  .  .  . 

174 


FURY  175 

If  he  broke  his  oath,  he'd  never  be  a  man  again. 
And  not  even  that  would  be  fair  to  Min,  because 
she  wouldn't  marry  a  man  if  he  broke  his  oath. 
For  then  it  wouldn't  be  a  man  she'd  be  marrying; 
no,  it'd  be  a  scared,  hunted  lout,  a  funk,  a  dirty 
funk  who  had  gone  back  on  his  sailor's  oath,  who'd 
lied  to  the  dead  (and  the  dead  were  waiting  to 
welcome  yer  or  damn  yer,  Looney  Luke  said)  and 
he  wanted  to  kiss  his  father  again  when  he  met 
him,  like  the  kiss  he'd  had  before.  .  .  .  No;  there 
wasn't  any  way  of  being  fair  to  Min,  just  now! 

The  die  was  cast.  Min,  love,  hope,  everything 
must  go.  He  must  kill  this  man ! 

Shoot  him  ?  No.  His  father  had  said,  "Get  his 
throat!" 

It  must  be  a  man-fight.  God,  what  a  bloody 
fight  it  was  going  to  be !  If  this  man  was  any  size, 
it  would  be  a  fight  all  right!  Boy's  muscles 
tautened,  his  eyes  blazed,  he  stood  up.  But  he 
must  find  this  mother  first. 

Mother!  What  would  she  look  like?  What 
would  he  do?  What  would  she  say?  What  would 
it  matter?  He'd  have  to  leave  her  right  away  .  .  . 
to  go  and  kill  that  man. 

A  good  idea:  He  wouldn't  let  her  know  who  he 
was.  Why  grieve  a  mother  you've  just  found? 
He'd  just  find  her  and  help  her  vanish  to  do  his 
bit  of  tragedy.  Min  .  .  .  she'd  .  .  .  well,  some- 
thing would  take  care  of  that.  Maybe  his  mother 
and  Min  .  .  . 

He  moved  toward  the  door. 


176  FUEY 

Clancey  called  after  Mm:  "Wait  a  minute!" 

"Ask  'im  if  'e  wants  a  nice  Scotch  girl,"  piped 
the  girl  in  the  tam-o'-shanter. 

Clancey  laughed.  "I  reckon  that's  just  what  'e 
does  want.  We  may  be  back.  A  few  more  ginger- 
beers  ...  eh?  ...  he  will,  anyway.  'S'long,  Mil; 
s'long  all." 

The  door  slammed. 

Mil  turned  to  the  lassie  with  the  certain  kind  of 
face,  under  a  certain  kind  of  tam-o'-shanter. 

"Get  out  o'  'ere,  you!  You  ain't  accompanied. 
You  know  the  rules  of  the  'ouse!" 

Without  a  word  the  girl  in  the  tam-o'-shanter 
slunk  through  the  door. 

"The  idea  of  a  thing  like  'er,  lookin*  at  that 
boy !"  Mildred  mumbled  as  she  polished  the  glasses, 
and  mused:  "He'd  nice  eyes,  with  a  lot  of  dark 
spots  in  'em."  Mil,  like  Min,  read  the  Heartease 
library.  "Yes,  he  was  a  nice  boy — fresh  and  young. 
A  few  more  ginger  beers  like  that  an' — " 

Mil  was  over  thirty,  but  she  broke  a  glass 
in  her  hand  because  she  polished  it  so  furiously. 


CHAPTER  V 

LADY  SPRAY  was  in;  Red,  off  of  her, 
had  been  in  the  public  bar  of  The  Thistle 
and  had  a  couple.  There  Min  had  ques- 
tioned him.  Yes;  he'd  seen  Boy  coming  off  same 
time  as  he  did.  Boy  had  most  likely  gone  down 
to  the  office,  or,  still  more  probably,  had  gone  off 
to  buy  something;  a  present  maybe. 

Red  mentioned  nothing  of  Dog  Leyton's  death, 
perhaps  because  he  was  drunk;  and  then  again 
Red  was  the  kind  that  wouldn't  mention  it  anyway. 

Min  had  had  a  wonderful  day;  a  day  kissed 
every  moment  with  tingling,  wonderful  anticipa- 
tion. She'd  had  another  bath,  and  shampooed  her 
hair  with  some  perfumed  powder  from  the  chemist. 

She'd  looked  at  her  little  body  in  the  glass  in  the 
bathroom.  She  was  filling  out  already,  and  that 
reminded  her;  she  tried  on  the  new  nightdress. 

It  was  a  bit  Frenchy  and  low,  was  it  too  low? 
She  turned  around  before  the  little  mirror.  No, 
she  didn't  think  so. 

And  then  those  roses,  three  of  them  that  she  had 
sent  the  cellar-man  out  for.  They'd  cost  one-and- 
six,  a  tanner  each,  but  they  were  worth  it  all  right. 
Pink,  they  were,  and  getting  lighter  at  the  edges; 
and  the  smell — ooh! 

Min  had  never  before  owned  a  rose;  she'd  seen 
them  at  the  hospital,  though,  and  now  she  gazed 

177 


178  F  U  K  Y 

spellbound  into  the  flowers,  and  she  didn't  know 
why,  but  the  color  was  so  soft,  and  they  were  so 
clean,  with  specks  of  water  on  (dew,  maybe)  that 
they  made  her  feel  as  if  she  was  in  a  church.  She 
trembled  and  put  them  in  a  glass,  the  one  that 
she'd  got  from  the  bathroom  and  had  cleaned  her 
teeth  in. 

Oh,  there  was  that,  too.  She  had  got  a  brush 
and  some  pink  paste  from  the  chemist;  the  paste 
tasted  nice  and  she  wanted  to  eat  it;  and  after 
she'd  cleaned  them,  Min's  teeth  looked  white,  ex- 
cept the  one  which  was  a  little  bit  gone  at  the  side. 

She'd  been  to  the  Dental  Hospital  once  with 
Mrs.  Fels'  eldest  daughter,  but  some  one  had 
screamed  in  the  next  room  and  she  had  run  out, 
and  it  hurt  her  gums  to  clean  her  teeth,  so  that 
she'd  never  bothered. 

But  to-day  everything  had  got  to  look  white  and 
pink,  like  the  bed  and  her  nightdress. 

She'd  got  into  bed  and  held  up  the  mirror  to  see 
how  she  looked  in  bed,  and  turning  on  her  side 
she'd  imagined  Boy,  her  husband,  lying  there, 
sleeping;  and  leaning  over  she  pretended  that  she 
kissed  his  forehead  and  he  smiled  in  his  sleep. 

Dressed,  she  had  donned  those  things  that  she'd 
put  ribbon  into.  They  felt  warm  and  soft  next  to 
her  skin. 

She'd  scrubbed  her  hands  and  touched  her  face 
with  some  flour  from  the  kitchen.  Now  then, 
would  she  leave  the  roses  in  the  glass  beside  the 
bed  and  her  nightdress  ...  or  ... 


FURY  179 

She  went  to  the  door  and  opened  it,  pretending 
she  was  Boy.  What  would  he  see,  when  they  came 
up  together?  Pink  and  white!  Pink  and  white! 
Well,  she'd  go  both  ways;  she'd  wear  them  and 
then  when  they  came  up  ...  after  the  marriage, 
when  she  started  to  ...  undress,  she'd  slip  them 
again  into  the  glass  next  the  bed,  all  pink  and 
white,  as  she'd  be  in  a  minute  .  .  .  then! 

Everything  was  coming  that  way ;  there  was  old 
Pinkie  .  .  .  she  shuddered.  A  shadow  seemed  to 
cross  the  room  and  his  low  voice  vibrate — she 
could  almost  hear  him  again;  and  he  was  right, 
all  right,  that  Pinkie! 

"You're  on  the  threshold  of  Life's  sweetest 
journey;  stick  tight  .  .  .  stick  tight!" 

Then  some  one  knocked  at  the  door,  and  a  voice 
outside  told  her  that  some  one  had  asked  for  her 
downstairs. 

It  was  Boy — Boy  at  last. 

She  trembled  violently.     At  last! 

She  sat  down  on  the  bed  for  a  moment  to  steady 
herself.  She  took  a  deep  breath,  and  rose  and 
crossed,  and  put  on  the  hat  with  the  feathers  on. 


CHAPTER  VI 

"T  TT  THAT  a  game!    We  pull  out  to-night  for 

%/  Y     London,"  said  Captain  Morgan  as  he 

left  the  office  with  Mr.  Hop  at  his  side. 

Morgan  waited  while  Mr.  Hop  asked  some  one 
for  a  match  to  light  his  pipe.  Captain  Morgan  did 
not  smoke,  and  he  fidgeted  restlessly  upon  the 
corner  until  Mr.  Hop,  tucking  his  books  carefully 
under  his  arm  and  exuding  clouds  of  smoke,  came 
forward  beaming. 

"Congratulations,  Captain." 

They  stood  on  the  corner,  chatting,  one  very  tall 
and  one  very  short.  Morgan  spat. 

"Boy's  first,  you're  second  mate  now — " 

"Yes,  Captain,  I  gathered  that  from  Mr.  Rogers 
while  I  was  waiting.  I  expect  you  spoke  a  good 
word  for  me,  sir?" 

"I  did.  And  I  reckon  it  won't  be  long  before 
ye're  first  mate.  I'll  buck  Clancey  up  then.  I've 
give  him  your  berth  for  now." 

"Things  are  changin'  quickly."  Mr.  Hop  looked 
up. 

"They  ain't  changin'  as  they're  goin'  to  change." 
Mr.  Morgan  looked  down.  "If  that  brat  ain't 
already  jumped,  he  soon  will  when  I  get  after 
Mm." 

Morgan's  eyes  narrowed  while  Mr.  Hop  stood 
and  puffed  complacently  at  his  pipe. 

180 


FURY  181 

Then  Morgan  spoke  again :  "The  Company's  keen 
on  the  boy,  so  I'll  have  to  take  'im  back  to  London 
with  us,  but  after  that  it  will  be  time  enough. 
Savvy?" 

"I  think  I  understand  you,  Captain."  Mr.  Hop 
looked  up.  It  commenced  to  rain  again.  "Have 
a  drink,  Captain?" 

Morgan  did  not  answer;  but  he  walked  on.  Mr. 
Hop's  short  legs  stretched  after  him. 

"Kobin  Hood,  Captain?" 

Morgan  looked  down.  "The  Eobin  Hood's  not  a 
master's  house;  you  ought  to  know  that." 

"Oh,  beg  pardon,  Captain.  The  Thistle  then? 
Eh,  what?" 

Captain  Morgan  walked  on;  he  did  not  answer. 

The  rain  pattered  down  about  them,  but  men 
like  that  do  not  notice  rain. 

They  passed  under  a  sign,  "MacFarlane  Eescue 
Home."  Morgan  glanced  up — a  tragic  house,  wet, 
black,  and  dismal. 

Morgan  walked  on.  Men  like  that  don't  no- 
tice . 


CHAPTER  VII 

BOY,  twiddling  his  father's  watch  chain,  stood 
before  the  fire  in  the  saloon  bar  of  The 
Thistle  and  waited. 

Two  other  occupants  of  the  saloon  talked  quietly 
and  then  stopped  to  laugh  at  something  one  of 
them  had  said.  They  looked  up  as  Mrs.  Boss  came 
and  spoke  to  them,  and  then  they  rose  and  left, 
glancing  at  Boy  curiously. 

"I  thought  you'd  like  to  be  alone,  Meester 
Leyton." 

Boy  said,  "Thank  you,"  mechanically. 

"Would  ye  care  f orr  a  bit  of  quiet  supperr  after 
the  weddin',  Mr.  Leyton?" 

Boy  answered  the  one  word,  "No,"  mechanically. 

To-day  had  been  a  singularly  happy  one  for  the 
sad  lady  in  black.  The  smoky  air  had  been  charged 
with  vital  romance.  Min  had  talked  on  and  on 
of  love  and  of  Boy  and  she  had  actually  left  her 
lunch  untouched,  which,  after  all,  was  so  much 
saving  for  the  house,  and  Mrs.  Ross  was  Scotch, 
even  if  sometimes  sentimental. 

"Saving  room  for  tea  with  Boy,"  Min  had  ex- 
plained. Then  she  had  discoursed  of  things  that 
made  Mrs.  Ross  disinclined  to  eat;  and  when  Min 
had  skipped  off  for  her  bath,  Mrs.  Ross  had  spoken 

182 


FURY  183 

quietly  to  brave  Angus  there,  over  the  fireplace, 
of  the  days  when  .  .  . 

Yes,  Mrs.  Boss  had  laughed  and  wept  (and 
profited)  that  day,  and  here  was  the  braw  laddie 
that  she  had  almost  learned  to  love  herself. 

How  well  she  remembered  when  his  father,  Dog 
Leyton,  had  brought  him  into  The  Thistle  as  a  tiny 
toddling  boy,  and  Angus  and  she  had  given  him 
a  scone  with  jam  on  it,  and  then  he'd  dozed  and 
his  little  wistful  eyes  had  cried  in  the  smoke,  and 
at  closing  time,  he  had  been  asleep  and  Dog 
Leyton,  drunk,  had  thrown  this  same  Boy  across 
his  shoulder  and  staggered  with  him  back  to  The 
Lady  Spray  and  the  laughing  sea. 

She  had  not  seen  Boy  for  some  years,  and  she 
thought  him  changed.     She  had  been  a  wee  bit 
hurt  at  his  failure  to  recall  the  scones  and  the  , 
marmalade,  when  he  came  in. 

He  had  been  curt,  almost  rude.  He  had  been  in  ! 
London,  perhaps,  and  that  had  spoiled  him. 

Ah,  but  the  little  lass  upstairs  would  soon  j 
change  him !  She  had  a  real  soul,  that  lassie  had ;  j 
she  was  a  wee  bairn  wi'  a  dash  o'  God  in  her. 

And  at  that  moment  the  bairn  with  a  dash  o' 
God  in  her  entered  with  feathers  waving  in  herj 
hat. 

"Boy-ee!"  She  stood  framed  in  the  doorway, 
pink  and  white,  with  roses  at  her  waist. 

Boy  turned. 

"I  didn't  come  to  meet  ye,  Boy.  I  feared  for] 
me  feathers  in  the  rain." 


184  FURY 

She  stood  aside  for  Mrs.  Boss  to  pass,  smiling, 
and  the  door  shut  upon  them.  They  were  alone 
in  the  way  she  had  looked  forward  to. 

She  advanced  to  him  slowly. 

He  watched  her,  his  face  calm,  nnmoved. 

Ah,  he  was  actin'  a  bit !  Playin' ;  kiddin'  at  bein' 
serious,  bless  him !  Here  stood  her  Boy,  her  man ! 

She  held  up  her  face  to  be  kissed.  He  did  not 
move.  He  just  looked  steadily  down  at  her.  Some 
new  chills  were  running  through  her — such  cold 
chills.  But  of  course  that  was  nonsense. 

"What's  up,  Boy?  To  look  at  yer,  it  looks  as 
though  we  was  spliced  already." 

She  waited,  smiling.  He  was  going  to  speak. 
She  knew  he  was,  because  his  throat  jumped,  and 
his  Adam's  apple  moved  up  and  down ;  but  it  kept 
moving  up  and  down.  He  could  not  speak. 

Ah,  it  was  love;  that's  what  it  was!  That  was 
it.  He  was  scared,  same  as  she  was,  upstairs, 
when  they  told  her  he  had  come. 

Bless  him!  Fancy  a  man  gettin'  the  jumps! 
But  that  was  love,  that  was.  Love  was  bigger  even 
than  a  man ;  she'd  read  that  in  a  book  somewhere. 

So  to  put  him  at  his  ease,  she  pirouetted  happily 
around  and  preened. 

"Pipe  me  tit  fer  tat.  It's  chick  enough  to  vamp 
yer  growsy  old  dad." 

"Father's  dead!" 

The  words  came  slowly,  ponderously  like  a  par- 
son's. 

"  'Ooray !" 


FURY  185 

| 
Boy  winced  and  did  not  move;  and  then  in  a 

moment  she  was  at  his  side,  looking  up,  quick  with 
sympathy  now  that  she  knew  he  needed  it,  even  if 
she  didn't  understand  how  he  could. 

"Sorry,  Boy.  Sorry,  matey.  Straight,  I'm' 
sorry.  I  didn't  mean  "oorayP  I  meant  'when?', 
What's  up?  Don't  look  like  that!" 

Boy  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  slowly  he  took 
her  hands;  warm,  eager  little  hands,  trembling 
with  excitement. 

"Min,  I  can't  marry  ye.  ...  Not  now,  Min." 

A  sunlit,  fragrant  garden  became  suddenly 
black,  vague  and  awful.  Chilling  gusts  of  spiteful 
wind  ruthlessly  beheaded  tall  azaleas.  Pats  of  icy 
rain  cut  into  pansy-faces  and  cruel  gravel  ripped 
foliage  that  a  moment  before  had  smiled.  A  clap 
of  thunder;  a  flash;  monuments  tumbled  foolishly, 
and  drenched  waste,  shivering,  whirled  in  tragic 
helplessness  within  the  storm. 

"Min,  I  can't  marry  ye  ...  not  now,  Min." 

She  stood  before  him,  white  and  trembling. 

She  did  not  speak.  How  could  she?  Something 
was  banging  in  her  ears. 

His  mouth  was  moving  again,  but  she  could  not 
hear  what  he  was  saying.  How  could  she?  And 
then  her  cry: 

"Wait!" 

Her  hands  clapped  over  his  mouth  and  the  roses, 
crushed  against  him,  tore  and  fell,  foolishly, 
brokenly,  out  and  under  the  table,  where  petals 
fought  by  the  draft  from  under  the  floor  fled  hur- 


186  FUKY 

riedly  to  distant,  dusty  corners,  like  little  pink, 
aristocratic  girls  scurrying  from  the  clank  of  a 
French  guillotine. 

"Wait!"  .  .  .  Boy!  .  .  .  Christ,  wait!  .  .  , 
Wait ;  I  can't  'ear  what  ye're  sayin' !  .  .  .  I  can't 
-'ear!  ...  I  ..." 

"Min  .  .  .  now  be  steady.  'Ere,  sit  down 
'ere." 

She  was  curiously,  stiffly  limp,  as  he  sat  her 
down  in  the  deep  horsehair  chair.  He  stood  for  a 
moment,  looking  down  into  her  little  pinched  face, 
now  dull  yellow.  He  ground  his  teeth  and  sweat 
stood  out  upon  his  forehead. 

He  was  looking  at  Min,  wasn't  he?  His  Min! 
And  look  at  her !  She  wasn't  moving ;  she  was  look- 
ing funny ;  she  was  looking  up  at  him  like  .  .  . 

No,  no,  no;  it  could  not  be!     It  could  not  be! 

[  He  must  seize  her  in  his  arms  and  tell  her  he  was 

',  kiddin'  her.     She'd  be  cross  at  the  joke,  but  she'd 

smile  again,  after.     It  would  always  be  with  her, 

that  fright ;  but  look !  she's  ...  a  flitting  smile 

twitched  the  corners  of  her  mouth  as  pink  merged 

I  with  the  blue. 

"Boy !    Boy  darlin'.    Ye  ain't  arf  unkind  to  play 
[with  me  like  that!" 

Oh,  how  easy  now  to  say,  "Forgive  me,  Min ;  just 
[  a  bloomin'  joke." 

He  knelt  down  suddenly  and  looked  into  her 
(little  face  that  was  glowing  again.     Neither  spoke 
and  her  hand  reached  forward  and  touched  his 
father's  heavy  gold  chain. 


FURY  187 

"Ye  ain't  arf  the  smart  lad  .  .  .  are  ye,  darlin'?" 
And  she  fingered  the  chain,  delicately,  tenderly. 

It  was  not  a  moment  for  words.  Her  sails  were 
up,  waiting  for  a  wind  to  sweep  her  home  into  his 
arms ;  her  trust  was  in  the  sailors'  God  .  .  .  truth 
.  .  .  his  love. 

Boy  glanced  down  at  the  golden  chain  in  her 
little  fingers.  How  lightly  she  touched  the  heavy 
old  seal  and  all  the  significance  of  that  touch 
came  upon  him  in  an  instant. 

He  was  veering  his  course! 

A  woman's  hand  was  upon  his  wheel,  turning 
him  toward  shoals  and  pleasant  island  shores 
where  were  birds  of  happiness,  soft  ease  and  peace ; 
but  the  sailor  must  keep  his  course  ahead,  ahead! 
He  could  hear  the  wash  now — the  eternal  wash. 

"Swear  you'll  marry  no  one  ...  do  nothin' 
until  .  .  ." 

And  Min,  the  woman,  sat  still,  very  still,  calmly 
watching  him.  The  woman  now,  patient,  waiting. 

He  should  speak,  when  he  was  ready;  he  would 
speak;  and  thus  an  awful  quiet  fell. 

Boy  quivered,  as  the  toughest  seamen  do  when 
the  tide  is  rising  and  loved  ones  stand  silent,  wait- 
ing— waiting  for  good-by ! 

There  was  Min,  sitting  there,  patiently,  helpless, 
loving,  trusting  him,  and  he  must  ...  he  must  .  .  . 

His  head  fell  forward,  suddenly,  and  a  stifled 
sob  broke  from  him  as  his  face  buried  itself  in  her 
lap.  His  tears  dampened  her  wedding  dress. 

But  she  was  silent  still.    What  was  there  to  say? 


188  FURY 

/ » . 

At  such  times  such  women  do  not  speak;  such 
women  do  not  ask;  they  wait,  still,  silent,  patient 
;.  .  .  like  God. 

A  burst  of  raucous  laughter  came  hurtling  in 
from  the  public  bar  next  door,  after  Clancey's  voice 
had  rung  out  in  the  next  room  with :  "  'Ave  you 
'eard  of  the  lady  from  Gloucester?"  and  then  had 
recited  something. 

That  laughter  broke  the  silent  spell  with  Boy 
and  Min,  some  way. 

Boy  rose  suddenly  to  his  feet  and  turned  away 
from  her,  toward  the  fire. 

She  rose  firmly  and  came  and  stood  behind  him. 

Ah-ha!  Ah-ha!  she  had  smelt  the  gin.  Min's 
nose  knew  gin.  Ha,  ha!  Bless  him,  he'd  been 
celebratin'  his  weddin'!  O-h,  that  was  it!  Just 
stewed  a  little,  and,  nice  boy  as  he  was,  he  was  a 
bit  ashamed  over  it,  and  took  it  tragic  serious. 

Gawd,  as  if  she  wouldn't  look  over  that!  Silly 
Boy !  What  kind  of  a  man  would  he  be  if  he  didn't 
have  a  spot  on  his  weddin'  day?  Why,  strike  her 
pink,  to  come  down  to  it  now,  she'd  have  a  swig 
of  gin  herself!  It  would  make  her  sick,  but  he'd 
only  got  to  ask  her  and  then  she'd  be  quits  with 
him.  Silly  Boy! 

And  gin  does  make  people  sad,  Mrs.  Pels  had 
said  so;  and  Ma  Brent  cried  something  pitiful 
during  one  of  her  gin-crawls. 

Minnie  spoke:  "Why  didn't  ye  have  Scotch  or 
a  drop  o'  claret,  Boy?  Gin  saddens  ye." 

So  Min  helped  her  man. 


FURY  189 

In  a  moment  Boy  returned  to  Boy  and  the  wheel 
swung  around,  ahead  upon  its  course.  He  swung 
with  it. 

"Gin?     What  d'yer  mean?" 

"Oh,  Boy,  darlin',  I  don't  care.  I  love  ye.  It's 
yer  weddin'  day,  ain't  it?" 

"No,  it  ain't!" 

"Ah-h-h !" 

He  caught  her  arm.    "What  do  you  mean,  'gin'?" 

"Ooh,  darlin';  ye're  'urtin'.  No  matter;  Min 
knows.  Min  understands  ye." 

"What  do  ye  know?" 

"J  know!"  She  smiled.  Oh,  what  a  bloomin' 
sweet  baby  he  was!  She  could  handle  him,  all 
right. 

But  then,  if  he  was  wishful  that  she  shouldn't 
know,  then  she  didn't  know,  did  she? 

He  spoke  again,  gruffly:  "What  do  ye  know?" 

"Nothin',  darlin'." 

"Ye  said  ye  did  know  somethin'."  The  grip 
tightened  on  her  wrist,  painfully. 

"Ooh,  Boy,  ye're  'urtin',  darlin' !" 

For  a  moment  he  regarded  her  in  silence  and 
then  released  her  wrist.  Mischievous  sparks 
danced  happily  in  her  eyes. 

"Ye  ain't  used  to  it,  darlin';  but  ye  gave  me  a 
fright ;  you  did,  straight !  How  do  ye  like  me  'air, 
Boy?" 

Taking  off  her  hat,  she  laid  it  upon  the  table. 

"Ye  ain't  arf  a  card,  Boy.  When  ye  said  'I  can't 
marry  yer',  oh,  lummy;  me  stomach  went  ooh! 


190  FURY 

"It's  too  bad  about  yer  dad.  When  I  saw  Red 
to-day  he  didn't  say  nothin'  about  it,  What'd  he 
die  of,  Boy?  Booze  was  it?" 

"No !    Ye  got  booze  on  the  brain,  ye  'ave." 

"No,  I  ain't,  Boy.  I  was  just  askin'  a  question 
like." 

"Well,  it  wasn't  booze,  see.  And  I  meant  what 
I  said,  see.  I  can't  marry  ye.  Not  now.  'Cause — 
'cause — I  swore  to  'im  I  wouldn't,  before  he  died, 
see." 

A  quarter  of  one  minute's  silence;  then: 

"Oh,  ye  did!" 

The  Toice  that  said,  "Oh,  ye  did!"  was  a  new 
kind  of  voice  for  Min  to  use  with  Boy;  it  was  the 
still  voice  of  Nurse  Cavell,  when  she  said,  "I  have 
nothing  to  say!"  It  was  the  voice  of  martyred 
woman  through  ages.  "Oh,  ye  did!"  And  Min 
stood  there,  calm  and  still,  and  listened,  and 
though  his  voice  sounded  miles  away,  she  heard 
every  word  he  said. 

Neither  heard  the  voice  of  Morgan  in  the  public 
bar,  gruffly  telling  Mrs.  Ross  that  she  had  no  right 
to  close  the  saloon  bar  when  a  ship's  captain 
wanted  a  quiet  drink. 

It  would  be  all  cleared  in  a  few  minutes,  Mrs. 
Ross'  voice  assured  him,  and  then  they  might  all 
be  invited  to  a  wedding  drink. 

And  when  Clancey  told  him  who  it  was  there  in 
the  saloon  bar,  Morgan  laughed  and  decided  to 
wait,  just  to  get  a  peep  at  the  lovebirds  for  him- 


FUKY  191 

self.  Good  thing,  too.  They  were  getting  out  to- 
night sharp  at  tide,  and  if  the  first  mate  wasn't 
aboard,  he'd  jumped  ship,  that  was  all.  And 
bloody  good  riddance! 

He  repeated  this  thought  to  Mr.  Hop,  who  puffed 
a  little.  His  rise  had  come  and  now  it  was  going 
to  be  a  good  rise,  and  here's  to  it;  and  he  clinked 
glasses  with  his  captain. 

As  Captain  and  first  mate,  they'd  have  some 
smooth  trips  together,  these  two,  they  would.  Mr. 
Hop  knew  Captain  Morgan  as  Mr.  Hop  knew  every- 
thing ;  and  Captain  Morgan  did  not  know  Mr.  Hop, 
which  made  Mr.  Hop  easy  to  get  around  with. 

Morgan  felt  tall  and  strong  and  calm.  "Captain 
Morgan  of  The  Lady  Spray"  eh?  Good  enough! 

There  was  a  little  woman  he  knew  of  in  London, 
near  Aldgate  Street  she  lived,  who  had  said  once, 
not  so  long  ago,  "I  love  captains,  and  wait  until 
the  time  comes,"  and  all  that  sort  of  stuff  that 
women  say  when  they're  urging  for  time  and  get 
scared  of  the  jump ;  when  they're  hooked  and  don't 
feel  like  being  landed,  yet.  He'd  have  a  new  suit 
on  when  he  saw  her  again,  he  would,  a  captain's 
uniform. 

Clancey  spoke  at  his  elbow :  "  'Ow  about  one  on 
me,  Skipper?  Fer  luck." 

"Why  not?"  Morgan  nodded,  condescendingly. 
Clancey  had  the  crew  pretty  straight.  "Why  not?" 

Looney  Luke  came  in.  The  bar  set  up  a  roar. 
Good  old  Spooky !  Good  old  Luke ! 


192  FUEY 

Luke  smiled  shyly  as  he  looked  around  and 
Clancey  shouted:  "A  glass  of  pigeon's  milk  fer 
Looney  Luke!" 

A  sudden  clap  of  laughter. 

It  was  because  of  that  that  no  one  in  that  bar 
heard  the  scream  next  door,  the  scream  of  Min 
when  Boy  had  said: 

"I've  got  to  kill  'im  first,  Min,  and  then  I'll  come 
to  ye  and  we'll  go  off  together  and  hide.  It'll  be 
rough  on  ye,  'cause  there'll  be  a  kind  o'  shadow 
over  us.  I  shan't  care  fer  meself,  but  it'll  be  hard 
fer  you  if  they  should  come  an'  take  me  away  an' 
'ang  me." 

Of  course  Min  had  screamed. 

Hang  .  .  .  Boy! 

Up  to  the  time  of  those  words  she  had  been  calm ; 
she  had  listened  patiently  to  his  voice. 

Every  word  had  cut  her,  lashed  her,  torn  her; 
but  she  had  stood  calmly  as  women  will  while  he 
had  told  her  everything.  She  had  not  winced;  but 
now  the  awful  truth  had  thawed  her  numbness  and 
convulsive  shocks  of  reaction  shook  her. 

"Boy,  ye're  mad  to  talk  so!  Think  o'  me! 
What's  yer  father  now?  What  is  'e?  I  arsk  ye. 
He's  a  stiff  an'  I'm  alive.  Boy,  ye've  only  thought 
of  one  side  of  this.  Ye  ain't  right  about  it.  Let 
me  tell  yer;  let  me  tell  yer;  let  me  tell  yer,  Boy! 
Yer  duty  is  to  me!  'Cause  I'm  'ere  an'  I'm  alive, 
an'  I've  waited  for  yer.  Oh,  Boy!  I've  waited  so 
long!  Ye  can't  go  off;  ye  can't  leave  me."  A 
curious  pause.  She  had  thought  out  a  way  of  com- 


FUKY  193 

promising  with  that  awful  promise  to  Dog  Leyton ; 
it  seared  her;  but  this  was  Boy — her  Boy.  "If  ye 
don't  splice  me,  that  .  .  .  that  wouldn't  matter,  but 
I  love  ye,  and  ye  can't  be  'anged.  'Anged!  .  .  ." 

Pinkie!  Christ!  Pinkie!  "Stick  to  yer  man. 
He's  yours.  God  gave  him  to  you." 

Boy  was  going  to  speak,  but  she  tore  at  his  coat, 
frantically. 

"I  ain't  gonna  let  ye,  see !"  she  said  tensely.  "I 
ain't  gonna  let  ye,  see !  Boy !  Boy !  Boy !  Look 
at  me!  Boy!" 

Only  for  a  moment  Boy  swung  again  in  the 
balance,  and  when  that  moment  had  come  to  its 
terrific  end  he  turned  away.  He  could  not  look 
into  that  straining,  pain-distorted  face,  into  those 
eyes  from  which  the  tears 'were  leaping  out. 

As  Boy  turned  away  Min's  dress,  her  wedding 
dress, — ha,  ha! — caught  on  a  chair  and  rent.  At 
the  sound  he  turned  again;  the  crisis  was  passed. 
He  threw  down  a  wallet  upon  the  table. 

"Father  left  me  some  brass.  Ye  can  take  the 
lot." 

She  did  not  see  him ;  she  did  not  hear  him.    She ' 
just  kept   on.     Reason   had  left.     She  just  kept 
on. 

"Boy !  Boy,  I  ain't  gonna  let  ye !  I  ain't  goin' 
ter  .  .  ." 

His  mind  worked  quickly;  something  had  to  be 
done.  Min  would  go  crazy  or  something.  She  was 
looking  funny  now. 

She  was  still  talking — a  torrent  of  words,  words, 


194  FURY 

words.  A  frantic  pleading  that  did  not  speak 
sense;  she  was  tugging  at  him,  tugging  at  his  coat 
.  .  .  and  at  his  soul. 

But  it  must  be  done.  He  was  deadly  calm;  the 
eerie  calm  of  crisis  was  set  upon  his  face. 

«Min,  stop  it!" 

"Boy,  ye  can't  go;  ye  can't  go !  I  ain't  gonna  let 
ye.  Ye  can't  go,  Boy,  ye  can't.  Didn't  I  say  ye 
don't  7ave  ter  marry  me?  I'll  fall  fer  ye  anyway, 
I  will." 

His  eyes  narrowed  as  his  thoughts  solidified. 
His  was  a  mission  of  misery ;  a  task  of  cruelty.  He 
must  apply  to  her  the  furious  procedure  that  task 
implied. 

"Stop  it,  damn  ye!    Shut  up!    I'm  goin',  see!" 

He  was  the  surgeon,  giving  a  life  in  exchange  for 
a  limb  which,  however  precious,  was  worth  less. 
The  knife  was  in  his  hand.  He  used  it,  brutally. 
Better  this  way  than  to  leave  the  member  hanging 
by  a  shred. 

"And  ye'd  better  be  brave,  because  it's  over;  you 
an'  I.  Finished !  There's  the  money.  Look  'round 
fer  some  one  else.  Ye  can't  fall  fer  me,  ye  know 
that!  'Cause  I  won't  have  ye  that  way.  And  I 
can't  marry  ye,  see!  So  buck  up  an'  don't  howl 
like  some  .  .  ." 

Cruel,  bitter  blows;  bitter  blows. 

"I  thought  ye'd  got  pluck." 

Min  stopped  crying  suddenly.  The  note  in  his 
voice  had  found  its  place.  It  had  hit  its  mark. 
It  had  functioned.  Silence  .  .  .  and  then  a  tight- 


FURY  195 

ening  of  lips,  a  convulsive  shudder  that  shook  the 
world;  and  then: 

"Go  on,  matey.  Get  ont!  I  ain't  'oldin'  yer. 
Don't  trouble  to  come  back." 

He  moved  to  the  door  quickly;  but  foolishly  he 
turned. 

Lot's  wife!  The  face  behind  him  had  changed. 
The  city  was  aflame.  Vividly  he  saw,  painted  over 
Min,  the  mouth  of  the  girl  in  the  certain  kind  of 
tam-o'-shanter;  the  girl  who  had  passed  out, 
beyond. 

"Go  on,  matey.    Mind  the  bleedin'  step." 

"What's  up,  Min?" 

"The  bleedin'  sky,  ain't  it?"    She  laughed. 

He  paused,  hesitated.  "What  ye  gonna  do, 
Min?" 

"Do?  Blimey,  what  d'yer  think?  'Ere's  a  nice 
'at,  and  'ere's  a  nice  bit,  a  girl  what  hasn't  been  'ad 
.  .  .  and  there's  some  men  out  there,  ain't  there? 
Ain't  there.  .  .  .  Get  out!  Take  yer  bleedin' 
brass  with  ye." 

The  purse  hit  the  glass  partition  of  the  door  and 
smashed  it  but  fell  back  inside. 

The  men  in  the  bar  turned. 

"Blimey,  the  lovebirds  scrappin'  already?" 

The  door  opened,  and  Boy,  white-faced,  came 
towards  them. 

A  burst  of  laughter  that  sounded  like  a  cheer 
of  victory,  as  he  took  his  place  by  Clancej. 

He  did  not  see  Captain  Morgan,  followed  by  Mr. 
Hop,  pass  forward  into  the  saloon  bar  and  close 


196  FURY 

the  door.  He  did  not  even  know  it  was  Clancey 
who  caught  his  arm  when  he  staggered  against  the 
bar,  mumbling. 

"Give  us  a  drink.  .  .  .  Don't  matter,  anything. 
.  .  .  Give  us  a  bloody  drink." 

Words  were  whispering  in  his  ear.  How  could 
he  hear  what  they  were  saying?  Mrs.  Ross  was 
talking,  miles  away,  across  the  bar  at  him. 

"Come  on,  give  us  a  drink.  I'll  smash  the  bloody 
bar  down." 

Clancey  quickly  put  Captain  Morgan's  and  Mr. 
Hop's  drinks  together  in  a  glass.  They'd  gone, 
hadn't  they?  And  gin  and  rum's  a  good  mixture, 
ain't  it,  for  a  sailor  what's  mad  about  something? 

"Fine!     How  goes  it,  Mr.  L.?" 

Boy  drained  the  glass  and  his  eyes  flamed  their 
answer;  an  answer  that  none  could  read  save 
Looney  Luke,  who  had  drawn  near. 

What  Luke  read  in  those  blazing  eyes  was  .  .  . 
fury! 


CHAPTER  VIII 

SHOULD  God  Almighty  order  "world-au- 
gratin"  as  a  casual  side  dish  for  an  evening 
meal,  the  evening  of  a  million  moment-ages, 
would  we  form  one  of  the  ingredients  of  a  sort  of 
cheese  dressing,  bathing  and  floating  as  a  gravy 
from  one  piece  of  light  crust  to  the  other,  slowly 
cooking  before  the  sun,  sometimes  boiling  over  in 
volcanic  eruption,  revolving  steadily  upon  the  spit 
of  Time  until  nicely  browned  as  prescribed  by  the 
celestial  cookery  book? 

And  when  eaten  and  enjoyed,  what  then  of  the 
Russian  Ballet?  What  then  of  your  new  winter 
hat?  What  then  of  Boy  and  Min? 

What  of  Boy  and  Min ! 

Had  they  been  smart  folk,  protected  by  a  pre- 
natal sophistication,  as  Reggie  Mountainhurst  and 
Cynthia  Charteris,  the  whole  affair  would  have 
been  too  delightfully  thrilling — such  a  pity,  but, 
oh,  too  gorgeously  novel! 

But  Boy  was  Boy;  and  Min  was  Min,  wasn't 
she? 

They  were  real;  too  real  perhaps.  Pitched 
against  the  concrete  floor  of  their  existences  they 
had  bounced  and  bounced,  waiting  to  be  struck  by 
the  bat  of  Fate  in  the  game  of  living ;  while  Moun- 
tainhurst and  his  girl,  unsought  by  the  grim 

197 


198  FUEY 

goaders,  lay  restfully  in  the  cool  shade  of  pleasant 
flowers. 

But  King's  counsel  had  taken  brief  in  their 
trial. 

God's  delicate  salvage  for  those  without  advice 
had  imposed  itself  upon  their  subconscious  vision. 

Thus  Boy,  to  spare  Min,  to  cut  free,  cleanly,  had 
risen  and  spoken  bitter  blows  upon  her  defenseless 
head  worthy  of  a  modern  David  Garrick.  Thus  to 
call  forth  in  her  that  twist  which  might  in  retro- 
spect help  her  to  help  herself  by  hating  him.  It 
would  be  unjust  of  course  (that  hurt  him)  but 
what  would  it  really  matter  if  it  helped  her? 

She  might  go  wrong  .  .  .  yes,  and  he'd  done  it ; 
.  .  .  yes. 

But  going  wrong  alive  was  better  than  going 
right  plumb  into  a  silent  cavern  of  black  memory 
misery,  a  dank  tomb  for  a  broken  heart. 

That  may  have  been  the  way  Boy  reasoned  it. 

At  any  rate  it  all  made  for  fury. 

Everything  blazed  and  roared  in  color;  every 
fiber  of  the  situation  moved,  had  vitality.  It  was 
life!  It  moved;  and  moving  things  come  to  some 
conclusion,  sometime. 

But  Mins  don't  go  wrong;  they  can't. 

Their  faces  the  other  way,  turning  always  to 
right,  light  and  love.  Circumstance  never  has  been 
forged  with  cunning  or  edge  enough  to  make  such 
an  event  remotely  possible. 

So  our  minds  are  at  rest  as  far  as  this  same  Min 
of  this  same  history  is  concerned. 


•' ,  .  FUKY  199 

Min  .  .  .  wrong?  Never!  Never!  An  uncon- 
trolled right  was  hers,  the  right  of  simple  thought, 
of  eyes  weeping,  perhaps,  but  looking  up,  always 
up,  to  where  hope  hid  for  a  moment  behind  fleeting 
clouds  which  were  but  vapor,  however  solid  black 
they  seemed.  Mins  look  up. 

Now,  at  this  instant  in  events,  Boy's  Min  turned 
and  looked  up  from  the  chair  in  which  her  head 
had  been  buried  when  she  heard  the  door  close 
again  and  Morgan's  deep  voice  saying : 

"Cryin'  on  yer  weddin'  day,  Min?  That's  un- 
lucky." 

Min  laughed  and  sat  back  squarely.  She  did  not 
speak,  but  regarded  them  smilingly  as  they  pon- 
derously took  seats  and  Mr.  Hop's  fat  hand  lightly 
touched  the  bell  upon  the  table. 

Morgan  stretched  his  long  legs  and  regarded  her 
with  the  silent  amusement  of  one  who  sees  a  black 
kitten,  who  has  fallen  into  the  milk,  frantically 
licking  itself  black  again. 

"Startin'  in  right,  eh,  Min?  Petticoat  govern- 
ment for  ye,  eh?"  Morgan  observed,  solicitously. 

Mr.  Hop  laughed.  Not  that  he  was  amused;  he 
never  was ;  but  his  captain  had  spoken  with  a  view 
to  levity. 

Claques  like  Mr.  Hop  stimulate  a  dull  play  and 
Morgan  was  a  bad  actor. 

"Women's  rights,  I  say,  eh,  Mr.  Morgan?" 

"Captain  Morgan,  now,  Min." 

"You!"  and  Min  laughed  again,  as  Mrs.  Boss 
opened  the  door. 


200  FUEY 

"A  drop  o'  port,  Min?"  Morgan's  voice  was 
light. 

Min  smiled  as  Mrs.  Asquith  must  have  smiled 
when,  like  our  Saviour,  she  had  been  offered  the 
world  .  .  .  from  the  roof  of  New  York's  Wool- 
worth  Building. 

"Not  for  me,  matey.  One  boozer  in  the  family's 
enough,  ain't  it?" 

"Is  Boy  boozed?" 

"Who  said  so?" 

Morgan  gave  his  order  for  rum  and  Mr.  Hop 
said  the  one  word  "gin." 

Mrs.  Ross  left  in  silence  and  the  little  party  in 
the  saloon  bar  settled  down  comfortably.  The 
conversation  became  impersonal  and  did  not  be- 
come too  engrossing.  Min  saw  to  that.  It  was 
what  naturally  would  mark  an  occasion  when  a 
captain  of  the  sea  sat  for  a  quiet  drink  along  of  his 
mate  and  a  calm,  composed,  informed  young  lady 
of  the  world  .  .  .  and  Limehouse. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THAT  institution  which  is  called  the  British 
public  bar  seems  strangely  old  these  days. 
Resilience  it  never  had,  but  it  looked  new 
once  and  once  smelt  freshly  painted. 

Now  it  is  desperately  old.  It  is  not  unlikely  that 
news  overseas  of  the  tragic  demise  of  its  rich 
cousin,  the  American  saloon,  has  given  it  one  of 
those  annoying  sinking  feelings.  A  wonderfully 
rich  cousin  it  had  been,  it  had  died  without  a  will, 
and  its  funeral  service  was  impressive:  a  requiem 
sung  by  millions  on  that  memorial  night  of  July 
6th,  1920.  Somehow  it  made  one  stop  and  think. 

With  the  jeering  tenors  and  basses  mingled 
vaguely  in  a  kind  of  tenderly  triumphant  har- 
mony the  delicate  altos  and  sopranos  of  American 
mothers. 

And  to  those  whose  ears  were  clear  that  night 
came  from  over  somewhere  the  deliriously  hopeful 
treble  of  unborn  Americans. 

Music  at  that  funeral  of  Johnnie  Walker  (now 
gone  very  weak)  and  all  the  rest?  Yes;  plenty. 
It  was  a  splendid  service  to  a  most  important  dead ; 
a  service  of  optimism,  a  service  of  fervor,  a  service 
of  prayer  for  the  complete  repose  of  the  departed 
spirit  (and  the  wines  and  beers)  whose  monument 
towers  higher  than  stately  Liberty  upon  her  island, 

201 


202  FUEY 

and  has  tablets  made  of  American  memory  and 
chiselled  very  deeply. 

Perhaps  fleeting  ghosts  still  haunt  the  paths  fa- 
miliar during  the  old  life.  Ghosts  do  such  things. 
But  Americans  are  not  afraid.  They  do  not  trem- 
ble; they  do  not  flee;  with  characteristic  courage 
they  pursue,  shoot,  capture,  give  welcome  to  these 
clinking,  awful  spirits,  as  their  respective  office, 
state,  taste  or  opinion  may  direct. 

At  any  rate  all  bars  are  spiritualists.  They 
both  materialize  and  communicate  with  dead.  In 
seances  lately  the  voice  of  the  American  dead  has 
whispered  to  the  bars  of  the  whole  world  (includ- 
ing those  on  the  British  waterfronts)  the  very  un- 
certain hereafter  which  awaits  all  bars.  Thus,  the 
public  bar  of  Merrie  Britain,  without  hope  of  any- 
thing at  all  like  immortality  after  life  (though 
goodness  knows  it  has  not  lived  its  life  without 
some  attention  from  the  clergy),  without  achieve- 
ment other  than  the  protruding  abdomens  of  its 
human  sponsors,  some  merriment,  some  prison- 
terms,  some  flashes  of  genius  and  millions  of  black 
eyes,  waits  old  and  dirty,  very  fearfully,  for  the 
day  when  it  must  join  that  dead  American  cousin 
in  the  tomb.  Now  and  then  it  bucks  up  into  cheer- 
fulness, but  soon  it  sags,  remembering. 

The  Thistle  Public  Bar  was  no  exception  among 
bars.  In  its  morning  emptiness  hope  smiled  and 
it  looked  eagerly  for  new  youth  to  enter  through 
the  door  left  open  by  the  cellar-man  to  admit  air 
while  he  cleaned  the  step  with  hearthstone  and 


FURY  203 

gave  the  whole  place  a  new  floor*  of  clean  sawdust. 

Such  vitalizing  treatment  will  make  a  British 
bar  feel  almost  young  again;  will  make  it,  so  to 
speak,  shake  itself  into  freshness;  but  age  is  age, 
and  booze  is  booze,  and  five  o'clock  in  the  after- 
noon found  clouds  of  shag  fumes,  the  stench  of 
many  beer  puddles  and  the  shouts  of  much  drunken 
refuse  from  docks  and  stately  ships  within  The 
Thistle's  public  bar. 

"What  th'  hell  does  old  Luke  want  here?" 
Clancey  demanded  of  Red,  who  had  just  returned 
through  a  little  door  back  into  the  bar.  "Sittin' 
there  drinkin'  tea  like  some  old  woman!  He'd 
shove  a  damper  onto  anything,  he  would!" 

Red  agreed  drunkenly  with  his  shipmate's  criti- 
cism of  events. 

"  'Ello,  Luke,  me  old  Cockywax,  does  yer 
mother  know  yer  out?" 

Luke  smiled  up  at  Clancey,  who  lurched  toward 
him,  continuing  in  shouts : 

"Get  back  to  yer  ship,  matey.  This  ain't  no  time 
fer  a  pretty  thing  like  you  to  be  out." 

Luke's  smile  held  as  he  gazed  steadily  into 
Clancey's  face,  looking  down,  very  near.  Then 
Red's  arm  swung  around  and  Clancey  fell,  thump  I 
against  the  bar. 

Red  spoke;  he  seldom  did.  "Let  'm  alone! 
Wha's  matter?  'E's  got  's  right  'ere,  's  much  as 
you.  Boy's  shick." 

Clancey  did  not  hesitate,  but  walked  almost 
firmly  to  the  little  door  from  which  Red  had  just 


204  FUEY 

emerged.  However,  as  he  touched  the  knob  the 
door  opened  suddenly  and  Boy  stepped  out,  his 
face  very  white. 

"Ailin',  Mister  L.?  Why  didn't  ye  say  ye  was 
sick?" 

"What?" 

"Feel  better?  Blimey,  a  first  mate  sick  in 
weather  like  this!  Never  'eard  of  such  a  thing." 

Boy  grinned.  "It's  bin  cuttin'  up  pretty  choppy 
for  me,  mate." 

They  had  reached  the  bar  and  Boy  leaned  in 
exactly  the  same  spot  that  had  been  his  for  half 
an  hour  now,  a  half  hour  in  which  he  had  drunk 
continually  and  confided  everything  to  Clancey, 
who  now  again  placed  a  double  Scotch  beside  liis 
elbow,  handily. 

"Ye'll  feel  better  now.  Ye've  got  room  fer  more. 
Good  'ealth,  Mister  L.,  and  may  ye  git  what  yer 
after." 

Boy  hesitated.  His  stomach  leaped  revolt  at  the 
pungent  fumes  beneath  his  nose. 

It  had  cost  Clancey  nearly  half  a  quid  to  get  his 
first  mate  halfway  cheered  up  and  sick.  Blimey 
he  couldn't  let  him  lay  down  on  him  now,  could 
he?  Not  if  his  name  was  Clancey,  he  couldn't! 
He  spoke  quickly:  "G'wan,  mate.  I  wouldn't  tell 
ye  wrong;  straight  I  wouldn't.  I've  seen  a  bit  o' 
life  in  my  time,  I  'ave.  Take  a  tip  from  yer  Uncle 
Clan  now.  Drink  up  an'  tell  the  world  to  go  an' 
.  .  .  choke  itself." 

Boy  did  not  drink  immediately. 


FURY  205 

It  all  was  a  new  experience.  He  had  never  been 
sick  a  moment  in  his  life  before;  and  now,  sud- 
denly he  felt  strangely  fit  and  eagerly  strong  again. 

Out  of  his  cleanliness  Nature  had  seized,  over- 
powered and  flung  the  poison  from  him.  He  could 
hear  Clancey  much  more  distinctly  .  .  .  before 
he'd  caught  only  snatches  of  this  worldly  sailor's 
advice;  they  had  been  vague,  but  of  sinister  sug- 
gestions; now  they  had  more  color  and  were  con- 
cise enough  to  promote  a  curious,  tipsy  acqui- 
escence with  views  born  of  much  experience  on 
many  seas  and  in  many  ports. 

Clancey  was  still  talking,  quickly. 

"Ye've  been  too  pent  up.  A  man's  a  man,  ain't 
?e?  And  'e's  got  to  live,  ain't  'e?  I  know  'ow  ye 
feel. 

"I  was  in  love  once  meself  with  a  barmaid  down 
at  Lambeth.  She  got  in  trouble  an'  I  kept  clear. 
But  it  caused  me  a  couple  o'  shivers  to  keep  away ! 

"She  was  pretty,  all  right.  Ye  know  what  I 
did?" 

Clancey  paused  and  tinkled  his  glass  signifi- 
cantly. 

"  'Ad  a  couple  o'  drinks,  found  a  blonde,  because 
the  other  one  was  dark,  and  blinkin'  well  fergot 
'er  in  arf  an  hour.  That's  life,  Mister  L.  If  ye 
want  to  get  out  o'  love  'ave  a  drink  or  two  an'  a 
gal  or  two  an'  forget." 

A  gal  or  two! 

That  part  of  Clancey's  advice  hit  Boy  curiously. 
To  Boy  a  gal  or  two  meant  something  he  had  never 


206  FURY 

had,  but  had  heard  a  lot  about.  A  gal  or  two! 
Yes  .  .  .  he'd  often  wondered.  But  the  thought  of 
a  gal  or  two,  as  applied  to  himself,  always  had 
seemed  a  kick  in  the  face  for  Min.  Black  curls 
and  dancing  eyes  were  all  right  in  songs,  but  not 
all  right  for  him  while  Min  loved  and  trusted 
him.  So  a  gal  or  two,  a  million  or  two  gals,  had 
lain  in  their  soiled,  lazy  lace,  unconscious  of  the 
fact  of  Boy. 

But  now  there  was  no  Min,  was  there?  And 
Clancey  might  be  right. 

He  loved  Min,  though.  He  would  always  love 
her.  Of  course  he  would.  And  without  her  he  was 
only  half  of  himself.  He  felt  different,  alone. 
Drink  had  only  made  him  sick. 

He  must  do  something.  Clancey  might  be 
right. 

A  gal  or  two.  ...  A  gal  or  two.  How  bloody 
silly  it  sounded !  Like  a  fag  or  two,  or  a  sandwich 
or  two,  or  a  bottle  or  two.  But  this  argument  of 
Clancey 's  half  held  his  interest,  for  which  he  was 
subconsciously  grateful. 

So,  he  drained  his  drink  and  felt  it  burning 
down.  He  would  have  a  look  at  a  gal  or  two — 
no  more  than  that;  no;  no  more.  But  he'd  got 
some  brass.  He  could  afford  that.  Clancey  had 
picked  up  the  wallet  for  him  where  it  had  lain  on 
the  floor,  waiting  to  be  pinched. 

There  might  be  some  fun — a  lot  of  fun — some- 
thing to  laugh  at,  something  to  make  you  forget, 
in  that  idea  of  a  gal  or  two!  Let  her  go!  Come 


FURY  207 

on,  what's  the  use  of  standing  around  moping! 
Hell! 

The  whiskey  functioned. 

Come  on,  trot  out  the  fun!  He'd  got  to  kill  a 
man  and  find  a  mother.  Some  blinkin'  fun  first; 
what  say? 

And  that  staunch  friend  Clancey  warmed  he- 
roically :  "  'Ere's  to  it !  Blimey,  the  lid's  off ! 
Fill  'em  up!  To  hell  with  the  ship!  If  she  puts 
out,  well,  there's  more  than  one  bloody  ship  in  the 
world,  ain't  there?" 

"Not  arf  there  ain't,"  Boy  said,  trying  to  be 
enthusiastic. 

He  then  lit  his  cigar,  the  one  that  Min  had  bent 
a  bit  when  her  fingers  had  caught  the  top  of  his 
pocket.  Cigars  burn  the  mouth;  this  did,  prop- 
erly, as  it  should  have  done;  and  the  drink  burned 
it  on  top  of  that;  and  his  hands  and  ears  burned. 
His  conscience  went  up  in  a  burst  of  flame  and 
lighted  up  the  world.  .  .  .  But  .  .  .  Hell! 

"  'Ello,  Clan."  The  girl  in  the  certain  kind  of 
tam-o'-shanter  stood  beside  them. 

"Talk  o'  the  devil!" 

Yes,  she'd  take  a  drop  o'  Scotch.  She  oughtn't 
to  because  she'd  had  no  dinner  and  drink  on  an 
empty  stomach,  you  know  .  .  .  but  .  .  . 

"A  sandwich  for  the  lady.  Come  on !"  Clancey 
was  no  poor  sport.  "Ham,  and  cut  it  thick!" 

Clancey's  eyes  met  Boy's.  His  glance  was  the 
smiling  beam  of  a  Rolls  Royce  salesman.  "A  bit 
o'  real  Scotch.  .  .  .  Bonny,  ain't  she,  Mister  L.?" 


208  FUKY 

"I  reckon  so,"  and  Boy,  confused,  caught  dull 
eyes  on  his;  eyes  that  seemed  to  say,  "I  like  you, 
please" ;  eyes  that  seemed  to  want  to  reach  out  to 
this  dark  young  man  who  seemed  to  stand  on  the 
other  side  of  the  globe  from  her,  keeping  a  dis- 
tance that  she  did  not  deny  by  rights  was  his. 

The  lady  raised  her  glass. 

"  'Ere's  to  ,ye,  Clan,  and  my  best  regards, 
Mister." 

Then  the  certain  kind  of  mouth  pursed,  sucking 
onto  the  rim  of  the  thick  glass;  and  as  she  drank 
the  certain  kind  of  eyes  peered  up  at  Boy,  who  had 
turned  his  head  away,  because  a  newcomer  had 
addressed  him. 

Therefore  the  lady's  glass  hit  the  bar  danger- 
ously and  she  spoke  quickly,  angrily:  "Get  'er 
away,  Clan.  Get  'er  away.  I  won't  stay  if  she 
comes  into  the  party." 

Clancey  looked  up,  as  he  handed  her  the  sand- 
wich on  a  plate  and  then  crossed  quickly  to  Boy 
who  had  turned  to  the  newcomer. 

"Never  mind  'er,  Mister  L.  Don't  have  no  truck 
with  'er," 

Clancey  stood  firmly  between  his  first  mate  and 
Tillie. 

Tillie  did  not  move.  She  just  stood  there  look- 
ing up  at  Clancey's  back.  Boy  could  see  the  top 
of  her  dirty  hat,  peeping  over  Clancey's  shoulder. 
^  "Get  out,  Clancey.  I  was  talkin'  to  some  one." 

Clancey  did  not  move,  but  continued  quickly: 
"Terrible,  Mister  L. ;  bloody  awful.  Take  a  tip 


FUKY  209 

i 
from  me  now ;  I  know.    You'll  never  sack  'er.    All 

she  wants  is  a  gallon  o'  gin  and  a  lot  o'  gab.  I 
know  'em.  Leave  it  to  me  now,  will  ye,  Mister  L.?" 

Boy  answered  him,  a  note  of  hardness  in  his 
voice.  "Well,  blimey,  don't  stand  in  front  of  'er 
like  that.  She  ain't  no  bloomin'  fireplace." 

Clancey  moved  aside,  grudgingly.  "Well,  don't 
say  I  didn't  warn  ye."  And  he  turned  again  to 
his  own  girl. 

Yes,  Clancey  knew  'em.  Boy  looked  down  into 
the  face  of  Tillie,  the  same  Tillie  who  had  tapped 
the  bar  at  breakfast-time  that  morning;  the  same 
Tillie  who  had  given  those  sailors  their  answer 
back,  that  answer  that  had  sent  Min  upstairs,  sing- 
ing the  filth  out  of  her  ears.  Boy  did  not  know 
that,  of  course. 

Tillie  stood  before  Boy  now,  looking  up,  the  yel- 
low light  upon  her  face  catching  a  funny  smile 
that  shone  there  steadily.  She  did  not  speak  at 
once,  but  took  a  faltering  step  forward  as  if  to 
diminish  the  possibility  of  another  separation  such 
as  Clancey's  intrusion  had  caused. 

"Ye've  got  manners,  sailor  boy." 

Boy  grinned.     "Same  to  you,  lady." 

"Just  like  a  little  prince  you  are.  A  little 
prince;  and  gracious,  too,  I  say."  Her  thin  strip 
of  a  mouth  stretched  into  a  laugh  that  had  no 
sound. 

"And  what  will  yer  Ladyship  take  fer  refresh- 
ment this  nice  evenin'?" 

"At  yer  Royal  Highness'  pleasure,  a  drop  o1  gin, 


210  FURY 

cold,"  said  Tillie,  quickly  in  the  spirit  of  it,  pick- 
ing up  her  skirts  and  dropping  him  a  low  curtsey. 
But  she  shouldn't  have  tried,  it  after  so  many  gins. 
She  overbalanced  backward  and  fell  upon  the  saw- 
dust. Laughter  roared  as  she  sat  there  helplessly, 
looking  up. 

It  was  Looney  Luke  who  hurried  to  help  Boy  to 
pull  her  to  her  feet  and  seat  her  in  the  nearest 
chair  by  the  nearest  table,  and  Luke  went  back  and 
bent  to  pick  up  her  old  black  purse  at  the  same 
moment  that  Boy  did. 

"Boy!  .  .  .  Boy!" 

Boy  looked  up  quickly  at  Luke's  half  confiden- 
tial voice. 

"What's  up,  Luke?" 

"Come  back  with  me,  Boy." 

Boy  regarded  him  steadily  for  a  moment.  The 
whiskey  spoke  furiously:  "Who  arst  you  to  inter- 
fere?" 

Luke's  eyes  searched  eyes  that  he  did  not  know, 
but  Boy's  eyes,  all  the  same. 

"Boy,  come  back  along  with  me." 

Boy's  lips  tightened.  "Aw,  get  out  an'  let  me 
alone." 

After  a  level-eyed  but  not  persistent  look  Luke 
left  him  alone,  turning  and  passing  out  into  the 
wet  street  quickly. 

When  Boy  went  to  Tillie's  table  a  big  gin  and  a 
big  whiskey  had  been  kindly  placed  there  by  Ked, 
and  Clancey  was  bending  over  Tillie  saying  some- 
thing which  Boy  could  not  help  hearing. 


FUEY  211 

".  .  .  Scotch  .  .  .  an'  plenty  of  it.  'E's  got 
over  a  'undred  quid  on  'im.  .  .  .  Keep  sober,  if  ye 
can.  .  .  .  Ye're  safer  than  a  young  'un.  .  .  .  I'll 
be  back,  see?"  Clancey  stood  up,  saw  Boy  stand- 
ing there,  grinned  and  awkwardly  returned  to  his 
lady,  who  was  amusing  herself  by  pushing  Red's 
hand  away. 

Boy  sat  down  quickly  at  the  table  beside  Tillie. 
"What'd  'e  say  to  ye,  that  bloke?" 

Tillie,  noisily  sipping  her  gin,  looked  up  at  him. 
Then  she  stopped  and  lowered  her  hand,  the  entire 
breadth  of  which  clutched  the  gin  glass  wisely. 
"Just  a  little  prince  you  are." 

Boy  struck  the  table.  "What'd  that  there  bloke 
say  to  ye  about  my  money?"  Suspicion  edged  his 
words  sharply. 

"  'E  was  just  bein'  nice,  sailor  boy,  that's  all." 

"Wha'd'ye  mean,  bein'  nice?" 

Tillie  sipped  again  and  held  up  her  glass. 
"Don't  worry,  sailor.  Ye're  safe  enough  along  o' 
me.  Nobody  won't  do  nothin'  to  ye  while  I'm 
around." 

Boy  grinned.  Silly  old  fool!  He  spoke:  "What 
would  ye  do?" 

Tillie  smiled  with  a  supreme  confidence  of  gin. 
"Let  'em  try;  let  'em  try.  That's  all,  sailor;  let 
'em  try." 

Boy  glanced  up  as  Clancey  left  with  his  lady, 
looking  back  from  the  door  to  wink  knowingly. 

Was  Clancey  after  his  money?  He'd  said  some- 
thing about  jumping  ship.  He  was  a  dirty  tyke, 


212  FUEY 

anyway,  Clancey  was.  He'd  give  himself  away 
proper  by  things  he'd  said.  Yes;  let  him  try,  the 
dirty  swine;  let  him  try!  Boy  was  surprised  by 
the  sudden  consciousness  that  his  mind  was  saying 
the  same  words  Tillie  had  used.  He  smiled  and 
raised  his  glass.  Tillie  flourished  hers. 

"Let  'em  try,  sailor  boy." 

Boy  laughed  outright.     "Try  what?" 

Tillie  was  silent. 

"Try  what?" 

Tillie  looked  up  blankly.  "I  dunno,  sailor,  but 
let  'em  try.  Let  everybody  try,  I  say.  Why  not?" 
Her  voice  trailed  down  into  her  gin. 

Mrs.  Koss  came,  an  unusual  thing,  and  wiped 
the  table.  She  touched  Boy  on  the  shoulder. 

"Laddie,  I  would  speak  wi'  ye." 

"Oh,  ye  would?  Oy,  ye  would?"  Tillie's  voice 
came  up.  "Can't  ye  see  he's  engaged  with  a  lady? 
He  is.  And  he's  a  gentleman,  too,  an'  he's  proved 
it,  just  like  a  prince !"  And  Tillie  clutched  for  his 
sleeve  and  held  it. 

Boy  glanced  up  at  Mrs.  Ross.  Something 
warned  him  not  to  move.  Mrs.  Ross  would  speak 
of  Min  and  ...  no!  No!  He  couldn't  listen  to 
anything  serious;  not  now. 

Mrs.  Ross  was  used  to  reading  still  faces.  Did 
not  the  brave,  dead  Angus  speak  to  her  always 
from  his  crayon  portrait?  And  so  she  left  quickly. 

Boy  looked  after  her. 

"Bloody  cheek  women  'ave,  ain't  they?  I  hate 
women!"  Tillie  spoke  with  husky  conviction. 


FUKY  213 

Boy  was  silent  and  drank  again,  as  the  waters 
of  memory  surged  against  a  crumbling  dam. 

Tillie's  gin  gone,  she  leaned  forward  again. 
"Buy  another,  sailor." 

Clancey  was  right.  This  dirty  old  tot  wanted  a 
gallon  of  gin  and  a  lot  of  gab.  Where  had  Looney 
Luke  gone?  Boy  wanted  to  talk  with  him.  Still 
he  had  been  rude  to  him  and  he  felt  in  no  mood 
to  apologize  or  climb  down  about  anything. 

He  half  rose.  But  where  was  he  going?  What 
else  was  there  to  do? 

His  eyes  ached.  He  wanted  to  punch  some  one 
in  the  nose.  Argh !  What  the  hell ! 

"Will  ye,  sailor?" 

"Aw,  shut  up!" 

The  cellar-man  came  and  picked  up  their  empty 
glasses.  Boy  did  not  see  him;  he  had  closed  his 
eyes.  God!  he'd  like  to  punch  somebody  in  the 
nose!  What  the  hell!  What  the  hell! 

What  was  it  all  about?  Where  was  Min  now? 
Now,  at  this  minute? 

Argh!  His  spirit  was  sinking  fast.  His  eyes 
closed  tight  and  his  head  fell  forward  upon  his 
arm. 

He  did  not  hear  Tillie  say  to  the  cellar-man, 
"Two  more  large  ones,  Cocky."  He  did  not  feel 
her  hand  upon  his  head  and  her  voice  inquiring 
if  he  wanted  to  be  sick.  He  did  not  see  the  little 
face  of  Min  peep  through  the  broken  glass  from  the 
saloon  bar. 

How  could  he?    Boy  had  died  for  a  moment. 


2U  FURY 

He  did  not  know.  In  dying  does  one  know? 
Some  believe  and  thus  they  know.  But  what  could 
Boy  believe?  He  did  not  know. 

He  wanted  to  punch  some  one  on  the  nose,  with 
all  his  strength.  He  wanted  to  fight  ...  to  fight, 
free,  anywhere,  out,  out  ...  to  where?  And  why 
and  for  what? 

Drink!  Clancey's  whispers  had  carried  him 
shoulder  high  towards  lighted  palaces,  but  he'd 
been  too  heavy,  so  they  dropped  him  off  into  the 
gutter — the  largest  palaces  have  gutters  near  them 
—into  a  wet,  foul  gutter — foul  and  wet,  but  with  a 
foulness  that  assailed  only  his  nose,  and  a  wet  that 
could  not  penetrate  a  body  made  immune  by  the 
fresh,  clean  spray  of  sea-thoughts  from  within  and 
the  raw  brine  from  without. 

Yes,  Boy  had  died  for  a  moment  ...  in  a 
gutter. 

Under  stress  some  men,  like  runaway  horses, 
dash  forward,  and  then  suddenly  to  right  or  left 
as  obstacles  or  otherwise  determine.  The  left  may 
be  right  or  the  right  may  be  wrong,  but  forward 
they  gallop,  as  certain  of  stopping  or  being  stopped 
as  the  coming  of  the  night. 

Thus  Boy  had  galloped  and  stopped,  torn  and 
bruised.  No  frantic  cape  or  stone  wall  had  stopped 
him ;  he  had  just  stopped.  Had  he  been  lighter  he 
might  have  dashed  on  ...  to  what  ? 

But  Boy  was  heavy,  too  heavy  with  the  ballast 
of  an  inner  truth. 

The  soldier  in  line  to  the  swirl  of  the  band 


FUBY  215 

senses  that  ballast.  The  man  who  has  slammed 
the  curtained  door  upon  a  second  unfaithful  kiss 
feels  the  greater  thrill  of  truth  clattering  down 
marble  steps  beside  his  feet.  The  smiling  spy, 
dying  for  an  ideal,  walks  to  the  scaffold  with  the 
light-heavy  tread  of  his  inward  truth.  The  drunk- 
ard, led  forward  in  the  rain,  to  kneel  beside  a 
hoarse,  dripping  Salvationist,  feels  suddenly  from 
somewhere  the  steadying  thrill  of  this  drag  of  the 
power  of  gravity  beneath  his  feet.  There  is  no 
inch  on  earth  where  man  can  stand — on  snows, 
ships,  settled,  happy  land,  or  scorching  desert — 
that  does  not  hold  in  trust  for  him  that  answering 
welcome  for  his  weight  ...  of  truth. 

And  God  is  truth,  above,  below  and  around. 
Earth  called  to  earth  and  then  to  God,  and  when 
Boy  had  bent  forward  he  had  been  dismantled  for 
an  instant  for  divine  readjustment. 

The  busy  moment  past,  truth  flamed,  relit,  in  his 
eyes  that  looked  up  suddenly  into  Time's  .  .  .  and 
smiled. 


CHAPTER  X 

THROUGH  the  broken  glass  Min  watched  him 
smile. 

There  was  that  dirty,  drunken  old  tot  with 
her  Boy!  And  he  was  smiling!  Sober?  and  smil- 
ing ;  the  smile  that  had  been  Min's ! 

It  struck  her  as  rather  funny  and  she  turned 
back  into  the  saloon,  laughing.  She  did  not  stop 
laughing.  She  laughed  and  laughed,  higher, 
shriller,  a  furious  laughter  .  .  .  that  Mr.  Hop, 
who  knew  something  about  doctoring,  diagnosed 
mentally  as  hysterics. 

He  rose  and,  bending  her  forward,  patted  her 
back.  But  she  kept  on  laughing  .  .  .  laughing 
.  .  .  laughing. 

"Ha,  ha!  Errrch!  Ha,  ha!  He,  he,  he!  Bloody 
funny!  That  was  .  .  ."  She  was  fighting  for 
breath. 

Morgan  rose  and  took  her  hand.  Even  he  knew 
something  was  wrong. 

Mr.  Hop  pinched  her  leg  between  sharp,  strong 
thumb  and  finger  nails  and  ran  a  ladder  up  her 
wedding  stocking.  "  'Ysterics,  that's  what  'tis." 

"Something  ticklin'  'er?  Is  that  what  it  is,  what 
ye  said?" 

The    terrible    laughter    continued.      Fate    was 

216 


FURY  217 

amused.  Fate's  sense  of  humor  is  cruel.  Min  was 
laughing  .  .  .  laughing  .  .  .  laughing  .  .  .  choking 
with  laughter. 

"Herr"  .  .  .  "herr"  .  .  .  errrch!  .  .  .  Vs  got  to 
kill  some  one!  Ha,  ha!  ...  What's  the  good  of 
a  h-h-husban'  what's  bin  'anged?"  She  caught  her 
breath  and  coughed  painfully. 

Again  Mr.  Hop  pulled  her  forward  and  patted 
her  back.  Her  head  came  up  again  and  her  eyes 
rolled  back.  Her  hands  stretched  out;  she  must 
have  been  trying  to  say  something  which  was  very 
funny,  because  she  kept  on  laughing. 

"What — ha,  ha! — a  bloody  weddin'  day!" 

Mrs.  Ross  came  in  at  that  moment  and  crossing 
quickly,  took  Min's  arm.  Her  woman's  ear  had 
caught  that  laughter  and  understood.  She  led  the 
laughing  little  girl  from  the  room  and  the  Captain 
and  Mr.  Hop  could  hear  the  laughter  diminishing 
as  Min  went  up  and  up  and  up  the  stairs.  "Ha, 
ha,  he,  he  herrch!" 

"Kill  a  man?  >Im?  'E  couldn't  kill  a  rat!" 
Morgan  leaned  back  and  glanced  interrogatively  at 
Mr.  Hop,  who  said: 

"Another  spot,  captain?" 

Morgan  nodded.  "Kill  a  man!  'Im?    Agh!  .  .  ." 

Luke  stood,  a  silent  figure,  across  the  narrow 
alley  that  crept  off  from  the  waterfront,  down 
around  beside  The  Thistle.  From  this  point  he 
could  see  all  doors.  The  rain  beat  down  and  The 
Thistle's  big  lamp  gleamed  upon  his  bald  forehead. 

A  man  fell  out  and  across  the  alley,  in  three 


218  FURY 

running,  staggering  steps,  and  Eed  hit  the  wall, 
rolled  over,  coughed  and  lay  very  still. 

Luke  did  not  look  down.  Men  were  warm,  wet 
bags  of  smell  .  .  . 

Was  Luke  quarrelling  with  that  Mate  to  whom 
he  always  prayed?  His  look  suggested  that  as  pos- 
sible. He  did  not  move;  he  seemed  scarcely  to 
breathe.  A  suggestion  of  fearful  suspension  was 
with  him  .  .  .  wet,  warm  bags  of  smell  .  .  .  men 
.  .  .  men  .  .  .  and  they  were  in  His  image! 

Yes,  Luke  had  questioned  his  God! 


CHAPTER  XI 

BOY  had  heard  Min's  laugh,  as  perhaps  every 
one  in  the  place  had.  But  he  did  not  under- 
stand. She  was  happy,  bless  her!  He 
sighed.  It  all  made  him  feel  better,  lighter,  almost 
composed.  His  drink  sat  untouched.  Til  had  had 
only  one  more.  She  had  not  spoken,  so  he  had 
been  able  to  think  .  .  .  easy  thoughts,  colored  by 
the  ominous  fury  of  their  import  .  .  .  the  man  he 
was  to  find. 

Yes,  you've  got  to  go  ahead  steady  on  a  thing 
like  that.  Red  had  told  him  about  The  Spray  get- 
ting out  on  the  tide. 

Well,  The  Spray  would  get  out,  but  without  the 
first  mate.  Leith  would  hold  him  for  a  while,  at 
least,  while  he  nosed  around  a  bit. 

Min?  She'd  go  back  most  likely  to  London. 
He'd  give  the  money  to  Mrs.  Ross,  most  of  it.  He'd 
want  a  bit  for  himself  to  get  away  after  the  .  .  . 
after  the  .  .  .  killing. 

A  thought:  the  man  might  be  dead  already. 
Then  Dog  would  have  seen  him  down  in  hell  and 
there  would  have  settled  him,  for  himself! 

Still,  even  Dog  couldn't  kill  a  man  what's  dead, 
not  knowin'  which  damned  soul  he  was;  Dog  was 
dead  himself,  but  even  dead  he  wouldn't  know  the 
man,  unless  the  woman,  too,  was  there,  dead,  too; 

219 


220  FUEY 

and  she  wasn't,  because  Dog  had  told  him  that  she 
was  in  Leith. 

Blimey,  what  a  mix-up  it  was  getting  to  be! 
How  did  his  father  know  she  was  in  Leith?  How 
had  he  found  out?  There  hadn't  been  any  letter. 
Boy  had  looked  when  he  had  gone  through  all  the 
papers  left  behind  by  Dog  in  the  stuffy  cabin  of 
The  Lady  Spray. 

But  the  thought  had  a  happy  throb  in  it:  The 
man  might  be  dead  already! 

But  ...  he  rather  thought  he  hoped  he  wasn't. 
The  matter  had  taken  grim  possession  of  his  mind, 
even  of  his  blood  corpuscles,  as  it  had  controlled 
those  of  his  father.  He,  himself,  wanted  to  kill 
this  man  now;  he  was  set  on  it.  Calm  thoughts 
now  .  .  .  terribly  calm;  the  ominous  mental 
thunder  of  premeditation. 

Min?  Yes,  if  he  was  dead  already,  there  was 
Min.  But  even  then,  though  she  wed  him  com- 
fortably, she  would  not  be  marrying  the  complete 
man.  No,  in  such  a  case,  he  would  have  been 
cheated  out  of  doing  something  that  now  he  found 
himself  wanting  to  do,  aching  to  do,  that  was  essen- 
tial to  the  perfection  of  his  personality.  His  fists 
clenched  and  suddenly  he  drew  his  breath  in  hiss- 
ingly,  loudly  enough  to  wake  Tillie,  who  had  been 
dozing. 

She  looked  up,  blinking.    "What's  it,  sailor?" 

He  turned.     He  had  forgotten  her. 

She  sat  there,  quietly,  her  hand  closed  around 


FURY  221 

her  glass  so  that  you  could  not  see  whether  it  was 
full  or  empty. 

"Nothing.     Want  another?" 

Tillie  smiled,  strangely.     "Ye're  a  funny  boy." 

"Why?" 

"I  was  watching  ye.    Do  ye  dope?" 

"Dope?     Me?     No!     Why?" 

"Ye  don't?  G'wan,  ye  do!  I  shan't  give  ye 
away.  Tillie  knows." 

"Aw,  shut  up.    Don't  get  saucy!" 

Tillie  leaned  forward  confidentially.  "I  know  a 
Chink  what's  got  some;  half  a  quid  a  go." 

"Shut  up  there,  will  ye?  I've  been  all  right  with 
ye,  ain't  I?" 

"Ye  'ave,  I'll  say  that.  That's  why  I  was 
tellin'  .  .  ." 

Boy  interrupted  her  quickly.  "What  made  ye 
think  I  dope?  Yer  mad !" 

"All  of  us  is  that,  sailor;  didn't  yer  know  that?" 

"You  are.    I  ain't." 

Tillie  actually  put  her  glass  down.  She  whis- 
pered the  greatest  secret  in  the  world.  "Ah,  ye 
think  ye  ain't,  but  ye  are.  All  on  us  are." 

Boy  regarded  her  with  new  intentness.  Blimey, 
here  was  a  funny  one !  He  asked :  "  'Ave  ye  ever 
been  put  away?  'Ave  ye?" 

Tillie  paused  and  smiled,  the  wisdom  of  ages 
upon  her  brow.  "Yes,  I've  been  away,  but  not  for 
bein'  mad." 

"What  for,  then?" 


222  FURY 

Tillie  half  closed  her  eyes  and  her  mouth  was 
still  smiling.  "What's  a  woman  like  me  put  away 
for?" 

"Booze?" 

Tillie  glanced  down  at  her  half-filled  glass.  She 
actually  pushed  it  away.  "No,  but  that  had,  allus 
has,  somethin'  to  do  with  it." 

Boy  sat  right  round  now,  very  interested. 
"What  d'yer  go  up  for?" 

Tillie  laughed.  "Up?  Ye  mean  down.  Women 
like  me  never  go  up;  it's  always  down,  matey." 
And  changing  her  mood,  Tillie  drained  her  drink 
suddenly.  "Down  .  .  .  just  like  that.  Buy  an- 
other, sailor." 

Boy  rose  and  carried  her  glass  to  the  bar,  Tillie 
peering  after  him.  Just  like  a  little  prince  he  was ; 
young,  too. 

Poor  Tillie!  The  young  'uns  were  usually 
pretty  rough  and  the  old  'uns  too  drunk  to  be. 
But  here  was  one  who  hadn't  slapped  her  on  the 
back  yet,  knocking  the  breath  out  of  her;  one  who 
hadn't  said,  "Well,  Til,  ye  dirty  old  doll,  what 
about  it?" 

Well,  a  sailor  was  a  sailor,  wasn't  he?  and  gin 
was  gin.  And  here  was  a  good  double  gin  before 
her  now,  placed  there  silently  by  the  young  prince, 
who  sat  again.  After  a  moment  of  dreamy  inhala- 
tion from  the  glass  in  her  hand  she  commented 
casually  : 

"Ye're  all  straight  again.     Ye  ain't  no  boozer." 

Boy  smiled.     You  could  bet  your  blooming  life 


FURY  223 

he  wasn't!  He'd  remember  being  sick  like  he  was 
a  little  while  ago  for  the  rest  of  his  natural  life! 

His  face  straightened  suddenly  as  Tillie  aston- 
ishingly counseled  him:  "Let  it  alone,  sailor  boy. 
Take  a  tip  from  me." 

Boy  regarded  her  steadily.  Now  that  he  really 
looked  at  it  he  saw  that  hers  was  a  tragic  face. 
No;  Tillie  wasn't  old,  but  .  .  .  Boy  or  anybody 
else  could  take  that  tip  from  her,  all  right!  Sud- 
denly he  felt  differently  toward  her. 

<rWhy  did  ye  drink  to-day,  sailor?" 

Boy  looked  away.  Blimey,  what  a  question! 
,Why?  If  she  only  knew ! 

But  of  course  he  couldn't  tell  her  .  .  .  she 
wouldn't  understand.  She  was  past  all  that. 
She'd  think  he  was  soppy. 

He  answered,  a  dash  of  the  real  whimsical  Boy 
in  his  tone:  "Oh,  a  bloke  takes  a  drink  once  in  a 
while,  ye  know." 

Tillie  looked  steadily  at  him.  You  may  not  be- 
lieve it,  but  Tillie  knew  men.  She  knew  life — the 
life  that  had  kicked  her.  She  had  to  know  some- 
thing about  it  even  to  try  to  dodge  the  boot,  which, 
at  the  best,  seldom  missed  her.  Her  hand  touched 
his  sleeve  and  she  spoke  so  softly  that  Boy  only 
just  heard:  "I  hadn't  a  right  to  ask.  Sorry, 
matey." 

Boy  shook  his  head,  quickly.  She  wasn't  so 
dusty,  this  old  tot,  after  all.  She'd  had  quite  a 
nice  voice  when  she  said  that.  "That's  all  right, 
ma'am.  Ye've  never  been  in  love,  have  yer?" 


224  F  U  K  Y 

Tillie  laughed  again;  a  laugh  that  actually 
sounded;  a  laugh  with  depth  enough  to  sound. 
"Love?  .  .  .  Bah!" 

"What's  funny  about  it?" 

"Love  is!" 

"Why?" 

"There  ain't  no  such  thing."  Her  voice  snapped 
her  conviction,  and  a  note  in  it  arrested  him. 

"I  'ad  a  father  always  said  that." 

Tillie  nodded  her  head  and  banged  her  glass 
down.  "Then  yer  father  was  right,  sailor;  he  was 
right,  all  right." 

Boy's  eyes  turned  away  for  a  moment,  medi- 
tatively. "But  he  changed  his  mind,  though, 
later." 

Tillie's  head  was  still  nodding.  "Men  change — 
but  women  don't  .  .  .  never." 

His  thoughts  flew  to  Min.  She  had  changed. 
She'd  have  to  change  back  one  day,  when  .  .  . 

His  thoughts  reverted  suddenly  to  his  task — 
his  mission.  He  moved  in  his  seat. 

"I  got  to  go!" 

Tillie's  hand  came  again  on  his  arm.  "Don't  go, 
matey.  Yer  friend's  comin'  back." 

"To  hell  with  Jim!" 

"  'E's  all  right,  that  friend  is.  'E  likes  ye.  He 
was  motherin'  ye  'round  'ere  as  though  ye  were  'is 
child." 

"I  don't  want  no  one  to  mother  me." 

Tillie  smiled. 

"All  right,  matey,  if  ye've  got  to  go,  go.    And — 


FUKY  225 

er — yer  friend  promised  Tillie  a  little  something 
fer  takin'  care  o'  ye  while  ye  was  .  .  ." 

A  pound  note  found  its  way  into  her  hand.  She 
gasped. 

Just  like  a  little  prince  he  was  in  every  way! 
Her  eyes  watered,  her  voice  softly  grateful. 
"Thank  ye,  sailor  boy." 

He  rose  to  leave  but  glanced  quickly  down  as  she 
asked : 

"Might  ye  'ave  any  word  for  yer  friend  when  'e 
comes  back?" 

Yes,  that  was  a  thought.  He  had  better  send 
word  to  the  ship  that  he  was  jumping.  Nobody 
had  told  him  that  Morgan  and  Mr.  Hop  were  in 
back  in  the  saloon-bar. 

He  knew  some  one  was  in  there,  because  he'd 
heard  Min's  laugh.  He  rather  wanted  to  peep  in 
through  that  broken  glass,  but  how  could  he  trust 
himself  to  look  at  Min  again? 

Anyway,  he  had  better  leave  word  for  Clancey 
to  tell  Luke  to  take  care  of  his  things  aboard.  Of 
course  there  might  be  time  for  him  to  get  back  to 
Luke  himself,  for  a  moment,  now,  right  away.  But 
then  he'd  have  to  apologize  to  Luke  for  what  he'd 
said  and  he  didn't  feel  like  anything  like  that  .  .  . 
not  now  .  .  .  not  now.  He  was  calm  enough  .  .  . 
but  his  calm  included  perfect  readiness  to  go  at 
some  one.  He  was  going  to  be  calm  in  just  that 
way  until  he  found  .  .  . 

Where  should  he  go  first?  What  was  the  first 
step? 


226  FURY 

There  was  Mrs.  Ross ;  he'd  have  to  talk  with  her, 
just  as  soon  as  Min  had  gone  back  to  London. 
Better  not  talk  to  her  now,  because  she'd  only 
bring  Min  up  to  him. 

But  Mrs.  Ross  he  was  sure  would  know  some- 
thing about  the  people  he  was  after.  He'd  talk  to 
her  later. 

In  the  meantime  he'd  nose  around  a  bit  down  at 
the  Robin  Hood  and  along  the  front,  and  then  at 
the  Company's  office,  after  The  Spray  was  out. 

The  first  thing  to  do  was  to  leave  the  money  with 
Mrs.  Ross  for  Min. 

What  a  blooming  crime  it  was  to  treat  little  Min 
that  way! 

Where  would  she  go  now?  Back  to  the  Rest? 
No;  that  wasn't  likely.  Where  would  he  be  able 
to  find  her  afterwards?  ...  if  it  came  that  he 
wanted  to  find  her  .  .  .  and  he  would  want  to, 
whatever  happened. 

Ah,  Mrs.  Ross  would  get  that  for  him,  too. 
Mrs.  Ross  was  going  to  be  pretty  useful. 

There  she  was  now.  He  looked  across  and 
smiled. 

Mrs.  Ross  shook  her  head. 

He'd  got  her  all  ruffed  up  the  wrong  way  now, 
by  the  look  of  it.  He'd  have  a  talk  with  her  right 
away,  as  soon  as  the  saloon  bar  was  cleared.  Yes ; 
that  was  the  best  thing  to  do. 

He  turned  and  stooped  over  Tillie.  "Would  ye 
ask  my  friend,  ye  know  which — the  one  with  the 


FURY  227 

souse  on,  that  went  out,  with  that  girl — to  tell 
Luke  .  .  ." 

Tillie  blinked.  He  was  dazing  her.  Tillie's  days 
of  responsibility  were  long  past.  "Don't  make  it 
much,  sailor  boy.  I  ain't  got  such  a  memory. 
Now  if  ye  wrote  it  .  .  ." 

Boy  smiled.  Aw,  she'd  forget  it  or  lose  it,  any- 
way. . . 

"Don't  matter,  Ma.     So  long!" 

Tillie  looked  up  quickly.  She  was  hurt.  Then 
they  both  looked  off  and  up  as  a  voice  spoke  at 
the  door. 

"Go's  'ere  fra  The  Lady  Spray?" 

Boy  did  not  move  forward  because  Tillie  caught 
his  hand  so  tightly  that  her  nails  pierced  his  flesh. 
He  glanced  down  quickly.  Her  lips  were  moving, 
but  she  did  not  say  anything.  He  looked  off  to 
where  Lamey,  of  The  Spray,  was  telling  the  tall 
man  who  had  spoken  to  go  into  the  saloon  bar. 
Boy  shook  his  hand  free  and  crossed  to  Lamey. 

"What's  »e  want,  that  bloke?" 

"Skipper.  7E's  inside  along  o'  Mr.  Hop,  'aving 
one." 

Boy  peeped  through  the  hole  in  the  glass  and 
saw  the  tall  figure  of  Morgan  talking  to  the  man 
who  had  just  entered,  and  a  convulsive  shudder 
passed  through  him. 

Morgan!  Morgan  fitted  into  his  scheme  of 
things  damn  well  just  now!  He'd  like  a  crack  at 
that  big  swine  before  he  jumped  The  Spray!  He 


228  FURY 

was  big,  Morgan  was;  but,  oh  God,  how  he  felt 
like  kicking  the  lights  out  of  him !  .  .  .  Now ! 

And  .  .  .  he'd  been  in  there  with  Min,  hadn't 
he?  It  might  have  been  he  what  had  made  Min 
laugh.  He  might  have  been  ridiculing  him,  boy, 
to  Min!  Would  Min  laugh  at  that? 

By  the  last  thing  he  remembered  of  Min  she 
would  do  anything,  in  the  mood  she  was  in. 

And  he  had  sat  there  all  the  time  without  know- 
ing who  was  in  there  with  her!  What  a  dirty 
snake!  He'd  creep  in  anywhere,  he  would! 

Even  now  Min  might  have  gone  over  to  him. 
She  had  sounded  happy  enough.  .  .  .  She  couldn't, 
though ;  not  with  Morgan.  She  hated  him  as  much 
as  Boy  did. 

He  looked  in  again. 

The  three  men  were  sitting  and  he  couldn't  see 
Miu. 

She  had  gone  upstairs,  most  likely,  to  change  her 
dress.  Did  she  have  one  to  change?  He  didn't 
know  that. 

Blimey,  there  were  so  many  new  things  he  would 
have  liked  to  know  about  Min ! 

Wouldn't  he  like  to  rush  in  there  and  tell  Mor- 
gan all  he  had  wanted  to  say  to  him  all  these  years? 
There  had  been  Noah,  the  parrot  .  .  .  and  then 
what  Min  had  told  him  about  that  dirty  .  .  . 

His  body  shook.  He  wanted  to  drink  again. 
Should  he?  Should  he  crash  in  that  bar  now? 
You've  only  to  die  once!  The  only  thing  was  if 
he  was  bested — and  Morgan  had  all  the  odds  in 


FURY  229 

height  and  weight — he  wouldn't  be  so  good  for  the 
other  one  he  had  to  find;  the  one  he  had  to  find 
and  tear  to  pieces  .  .  .  r-r-rip!  His  every  muscle 
quivered,  and  he  turned  impatiently  as  a  voice  at 
his  elbow:  "Lady  wants  you  over  there." 

Looking  in  the  direction  of  his  informant's  ges- 
ture he  saw  Tillie  beckoning,  but  he  turned  his 
back  deliberately.  To  hell  with  her! 

But  somehow  he  felt  a  twinge  of  shame.  No; 
that  wasn't  the  way  to  treat  nobody ;  not  even  her. 
It  wasn't  right. 

That  whimsical  softness  latent  in  Boy's  nature 
could  not  be  diminished  even  in  moments  of  his 
greatest  stress. 

So  he  turned  back  and  waved  his  hand  with  a 
gesture  that  said,  "In  a  minute."  She  only 
wanted  another  gin,  of  course;  so  he  ordered  one 
at  the  bar. 

While  he  waited  for  it  to  be  handed  to  him  the 
laugh  of  three  men  came  through  the  space  broken 
in  the  glass  and  above  it  Morgan's  voice: 

"  'E  melted  up  all  soft  before  'e  went.  'E 
weren't  so  tough  .  .  .  not  much  more  than  a  bag 
o'  wind." 

Boy  took  a  step  in  the  direction  of  that  in- 
sulting voice.  He  faced  the  broken  door.  Was 
Morgan  talking  of  his  father?  Was  he?  .  .  .  Was 
he?  ...  Was  he?  .  .  .  Blast  him.  "Bag  o'  wind!" 

Something  checked  Boy.  He  swallowed  and 
choked  down  a  cry  that  came  to  his  throat.  No; 
he'd  wait;  he'd  wait;  and  when  he'd  done  the  other 


230  FURY 

job  (calm,  terrible  thoughts  these!)  .  .  .  when 
he'd  done  the  other  job  and  the  police  were  after 
him  he'd  come  back  here  and  he'd  hide  and  wait. 
If  it  were  years,  he'd  wait. 

And  that  waiting  would  be  ended  when  he'd 
murdered  Morgan.  a  .  a  With  his  hands,  he'd  mur- 
der him ! 

You  can't  hang  anybody  twice! 

When  his  father's  job  was  done  he'd  do  a  little 
job  for  himself  ...  a  little  something  on  his  own 
account!  .  .  .  Yes,  he'd  wait! 

He  picked  up  the  double  gin  from  the  bar 
quickly.  It  was  as  if  the  sharp,  determined  action 
sealed  his  mental  pact  within  himself;  anything 
alert  and  positive  would  have  served.  And  also 
he  had  to  wrest  his  eyes  and  thoughts  away  from 
that  door.  He  must  recapture  his  original  inten- 
tion or  before  he  had  attended  to  it  he'd  reveal  it, 
he'd  prematurely  spring  and  smash  and  rip  .  .  . 

He  placed  the  gin  before  Tillie  with  a  hand 
trembling  from  his  tension.  "  'Ere  ye  are.  Is  that 
what  ye  wanted?" 

Tillie  patted  the  chair  next  to  her  and  he  sat 
down. 

"Are  ye  from  The  Lady  Spray?" 

"Why?" 

"  'Cause  I  asked  some  one  and  they  said  ye  was 
inate." 

"That's  right." 

She  leaned  across.  "There's  only  one  Lady 
Spray  out  o'  London,  ain't  there?" 


PUEY  231 

"There's  only  one  Lady  Spray  out  of  anywhere." 
Boy  Leyton's  own  voice  mingled  vaguely  but 
proudly  with  the  gruffer  tone  of  the  man  in  Leith 
seeking  vengeance. 

"Leyton's  Lady  Spray  ye  mean?" 

He  glanced  at  her  quickly.     "What  say?" 

"Dog  Leyton's  ship?" 

He  nodded. 

"Dog  ashore?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

Tillie  was  silent.  It  was  as  if  she  were  treading 
cautiously  in  a  vague,  dark  place.  Her  thin  frame 
seemed  strangely  alive.  She  lifted  her  glass  with 
an  abrupt,  unnatural  movement,  not  to  drink,  but 
just  to  be  doing  something — anything;  to  cover  an 
embarrassment  that  would  have  been  obvious  to 
any  one  but  Boy,  who  regarded  her  with  slight 
interest.  Perhaps  she  was  some  one  whom  his 
father  once  had  known.  No;  that  wasn't  possible; 
Dog  always  had  hated  these.  But  it  didn't  matter, 
anyway ;  and  Tillie  was  speaking  again : 

"Where's  Dog  now?" 

Boy's  lips  thinned  as  he  spoke  the  one  word, 
quietly,  "Dead." 

Tillie  did  not  move,  but  her  glass  did.  It 
dropped  from  her  hand  to  the  table,  noisily  rolled, 
fell  to  the  floor  and  smashed. 

A  few  who  glanced  round  because  of  the  noise 
saw  the  young  sailor  put  out  his  hand  to  save  an 
old  woman  from  falling  off  her  chair.  Ha,  ha, 
Tillie  was  drunk! 


232  FUKY 

But  Tillie  at  this  moment  was  terribly  sober. 
Something  seemed  to  have  snapped  within  her,  if 
within  her  there  had  been  anything  taut  enough  to 
snap.  Her  eyes  looked  funny ;  and  Boy  would  have 
asked  for  help  to  lay  her  down  on  one  of  the 
benches  if  he  had  not  decided  immediately  in  him- 
self that  she  should  sit  there  and  revive  and  answer 
his  question  .  .  .  the  question  he  now  asked  for 
the  third  time  from  between  his  teeth. 

"Did  ye  know  'im?" 

Tillie's  lips  moved.    "Did  I  know  who?" 

Ah,  she  was  trying  to  retreat. 

"You  knew  Dog  Leyton."  He  gripped  her  arm. 
At  any  other  time  it  would  have  hurt  her.  Now 
she  did  not  even  wince. 

He  pinched  harder. 

Tillie's  lips  moved  again,  but  not  because  of  the 
pinching.  That  was  evident.  She  spoke  quietly 
...  to  any  one  .  .  .  every  one  .  .  .  herself  .  .  . 
the  world. 

"Dog  Leyton  .  .  .  dead!"  Then  she  smiled  and 
pulled  her  arm  free,  viciously.  "Aw,  get  away!" 

The  cellar-man  was  picking  up  the  broken  glass. 
He  spoke:  "Want  another?" 

Tillie  shook  her  head.     She  tried  to  rise. 

The  cellar-man  passed  to  the  bar. 

Boy  pulled  her  back  into  her  seat.  This  old  tot 
knew  something.  He  could  swear  she  knew  some- 
thing. She'd  been  round  a  long  time  and  she'd 
known  Dog.  He  was  sure  of  that.  He  spoke 
quickly  but  very  quietly: 


FUKY  233 

"Did  ye  know  Dog  Ley  ton  well?     Did  ye?" 

"When  did  he  die?" 

"Two  days  out." 

"What  of?" 

"Fits." 

Tillie  shook  her  head.  .  .  .  Her  lips  repeated, 
"Fits  .  .  .  fits  .  .  .  fits  .  .  ."  and  kept  on  saying 
the  one  word ;  and  she  actually  smiled. 

She  still  smiled  as  Boy  spoke :  "What  ye  grinnin' 
at?  Did  ye  know  'im?" 

Tillie  was  talking  to  herself:  "Fits  .  .  .  mad 
.  .  .  Dog!" 

Yes,  she'd  known  Dog;  Boy  now  was  sure  of 
that.  He  shot  an  intuitive  question,  suddenly, 
disarmingly:  "Did  ye  like  'im?" 

Tillie's  face  was  like  a  mask  but  her  head  nodded 
slowly. 

"Did  ye?" 

"Once." 

"When?" 

"Once." 

"But  when?" 

Tillie  looked  up:  "What's  that  to  you,  sailor? 
Ye  got  a  cheek!" 

Boy  was  insistent.  "I  know  I  'aye.  What  about 
it?  WThen?" 

"What's  that  to  you?" 

"A  lot  more'n  ye  think." 

She  looked  at  him  in  silence  for  a  moment  and 
her  face  became  knowing,  rather  sly.  "Yes,  that's 
right ;  ye're  mate.  No,  ye  ain't  mate,  either."  She 


234  FUEY 

turned  on  him  suddenly.  "Ye  ain't  mate  of  The 
Spray.  Morgan's  mate.  Ah,  ah,  ye  see  I  know,  I 
do,  I  do!" 

Yes;  the  old  tot  did  damn  well  know!  .  .  . 
something  .  .  .  and  he  was  going  to  know  that 
something  too.  She  looked  too  damned  knowing! 

He  asked  point  blank:  "Did  ye  know  Dog  Ley- 
ton's  wife?" 

Tillie  sat  still,  except  that  she  slumped  into  a 
crouch  as  though  waiting  for  something  to  drop 
upon  her  from  the  ceiling.  Boy  watched. 

Yes;  this  woman  knew.  By  the  sheerest  acci- 
dent he  had  stumbled  upon  his  trail.  She  knew 
something  .  .  .  probably  a  lot  .  .  .  and  she  was 
going  to  say  what  she  knew  or  he'd  know  the 
reason  why.  His  voice  was  gruff. 

"Come  on,  did  ye  know  'er?"  He  actually  shoved 
her  arm,  irritably. 

She  pulled  away.  "What's  it  got  to  do  with 
you?" 

"I  told  ye;  a  lot." 

She  turned  squarely  upon  him.  "Ye  sure  Dog 
is  dead?" 

"I  told  ye  so." 

"Well,  what  about  'is  wife,  then?" 

"That's  what  I'm  askin'  ya" 

<rWell,  ye  can  ask  on.  What  should  I  know 
of  Jer?" 

Boy  paused,  trying  to  think  out  a  strategy.  You 
couldn't  bully  this  old  tot.  He'd  got  to  kid  her 
along  a  bit.  What  could  he  say? 


FUKY  235 

Tillie  was  fidgeting.  Her  hand  seemed  lost 
without  the  glass.  She  gathered  her  shawl  about 
her,  restlessly. 

Boy  noted  this.  Certainly  he  must  not  let  her 
go.  If  she  was  bent  on  going,  if  she  did  go,  he'd 
blinkin'  well  follow  her.  He  was  on  the  track  of 
something  and  nothing  on  God's  earth  was  going 
to  shake  him  off. 

He  asked  a  question:  "Is  the  wife  dead?" 

Tillie  turned.     "Who?" 

"Dog's  wife." 

Tillie  laughed;  one  of  her  laughs  that  had 
sound.  "Deader'n  a  nail." 

Boy  started  quickly.     "When?" 

And  now,  almost  but  not  quite  suddenly,  a 
change  had  come  in  her.  She  looked  strangely 
wistful,  this  old  tot  did;  and  some  one  coming  in 
at  the  door  let  some  wind  in  that  blew  strands  of 
her  gray  hair  flutteringly  back  over  her  dirty  hat. 
"Find  out,  Cocky." 

Blimey,  an  idea!  Get  her  soused  again;  that 
was  it.  All  of  a  sudden  she'd  sobered  up.  Where 
was  his  bloomin'  brains  not  to  have  thought  of 
that?  As  if  he  couldn't  measure  brains  with  this 
old  ... 

"Have  another  gin,  ma'am." 

And  history  was  made  as  Tillie  shook  her 
head. 

"Yer  a  nice  boy,  just  like  a  little  prince." 

This  time  she  really  rose. 

He  rose  with  her.    "Ye  can't  go  out.    It's  rainin' 


236  FUKY 

cats  and  dogs.  Sit  down.  Have  another."  He 
put  his  hand  upon  her  shoulder. 

She  glanced  quickly  at  him  as  if  a  sudden 
thought  .  .  .  but  if  so  it  went  as  suddenly  as  it 
had  come.  All  her  thoughts  did  that. 

What  had  brought  this  one  into  her  head?  She 
had  been  looking  at  the  back  of  a  tall  some  one 
who  had  come  out  of  the  saloon  bar  and  walked 
to  the  little  door  at  the  back. 

The  door  banged. 

Her  eyes  narrowed  and  fixed  upon  the  door. 
Her  body  shook.  She  was  looking  at  that  door. 

Boy  knew  it  had  been  Morgan  who  had  passed 
through  and  he  wondered  at  the  strange  effect  of 
this  entirely  casual  occurrence  upon  Tillie.  Her 
look  arrested  him.  He  glanced  at  the  door  and 
then  back  again  at  the  set  white  mask  of  the 
woman  beside  him.  It  was  very  interesting,  this. 
He  touched  her  arm  lightly.  She  seemed  strangely 
taller  and  she  sat  down  automatically. 

"Do  ye  know  'im  .  .  .  that  man?"  Boy  asked. 

"Yes;  I  know  'im.    I  know  'im." 

Tillie  turned  her  head  away  and  thin,  blue-black 
veins  wound  bewilderingly  up  and  down  and  round 
the  side  of  her  wrinkled  forehead,  the  side  that 
Boy  could  see.  She  suddenly  had  become  pos- 
sessed of  a  subtle  strength,  a  strength  he  sensed, 
a  strength  that  called  to  his  own  pent-up  venom. 
It  was  the  unspoken  message  of  fury. 

Suddenly  he  found  himself  drawn  to  the  old 
lady  .  .  .  no,  she  was  not  old  .  .  .  she  was  a 


FUKY  237 

crouching,  almost  virile  woman  with  gray  hair 
fluttering  down  and  a  curious,  little  palpitating 
jump  where  vein  lines  met  upon  her  forehead  in 
violent  junction.  He  leaned  across. 

"You  hate  'im,  do  ye?" 

Tillie  turned  and  her  eyes  spoke  her  answer. 

It  was  as  if  a  tigress  snarled,  a  wounded  tigress, 
bleeding,  lost  and  wandering  in  a  jungle-night  of 
silent  agony,  her  crimson  trail  winding  round  and 
about  and  round  in  endless,  uncertain  circles,  and 
then  the  dawn  and  a  more  meaning,  definite  snarl 
as  she  sees  in  the  clearing  the  sleeping  form  of  the 
hunter  who  has  wounded  her,  lying  arrogantly 
calm  beside  the  drying  skin  of  the  cub  she  loved. 

Boy  leaned  forward.     "So  do  I." 

Words  hissed  in  his  ear.  "Kill  'im,  then, 
sailor." 

"I'm  goin'  t?r." 

"When?" 

Whispering,  heads  together  now,  in  a  new  inti- 
macy of  tense  interest,  black  and  gray  .  .  . 
ominous  figures  these  two. 

Earlier  they  had  said  lightly  together,  "Let  'em 
try!  Let  'em  try!"  But  then  they  had  been  talk- 
ing about  nothing,  and  Boy  had  laughed  at  it  and 
she  had  wondered  what  she  was  talking  about. 

But  now,  from  out  of  somewhere,  had  come  a 
some  one  who  had  tried  .  .  .  tried  what? 

Boy  spoke :  "What  did  he  do  to  ye?" 

She  turned,  very  much  the  tigress.  "Don't  ask, 
sailor.  Kill 'im!  Kill 'im!" 


FUKY 

There  was  a  mysteriously  powerful  urge  in  her 
voice,  an  urge  that  was  answered  in  the  trembling 
of  Boy's  fists. 

But  again  suddenly  his  mind  flew  back  to 
his  mission.  Couldn't  he  stop  jumping  ahead 
of  himself,  that  way?  This  woman  had 
switched  his  mind  again.  He  must  hold  his 
course.  His  questioning  returned  to  the  main 
issue. 

"Tell  me  about  Dog  Leyton's  wife." 

She  regarded  him  steadily.     "Why?" 

"  'Cause  I  got  a  message  for  'er." 

It  seemed  an  age  before  she  spoke.  "If  I  tell  ye, 
ye'll  never  say?" 

"Ye  said  she  was  dead.    Where  is  she?" 

"If  I  tell  ye,  ye'll  never  say?" 

"No." 

Tillie  put  her  bag  away  from  her,  across  the 
little  table  and  turned  squarely  to  him.  Now  she 
was  openly  bargaining.  "If  I  tell  ye  that,  will  ye 
tell  me  somethin'?" 

"What?" 

"Did  the  boy  live?" 

"What  boy?" 

"Dog's  boy;  the  young  'un." 

A  curious  feeling  took  possession  of  Boy.  Her 
gaze  was  full  upon  him,  was  like  fingers;  he  could 
feel  its  touch  ...  it  was  soft  .  .  .  agreeable.  Was 
this  all  some  mad  trick? 

He  felt  strangely  involved  in  a  whirling  mech- 
anism of  which  he  was  a  vital  part.  He  felt  that 


FUKY  239 

the  world  was  looking  at  him.  It  was  a  moment 
before  he  could  collect  himself  and  answer. 

"Yes,  he's  'round." 

"Oh !  Where?"  It  was  a  queer,  hoarse  whisper. 
There  was  a  tragic  awful  note  in  it. 

He  trembled  violently  and  then  he  asked  sud- 
denly, "Who  did  Dog's  wife  go  away  with?" 

She  opened  her  mouth  to  speak  at  once,  then 
checked  herself. 

"Who  was  it?" 

She  knew  .  .  .  she  knew  ...  he  knew  she  knew ! 

She  spoke:  "What  was  Dog's  message  fer  'er?" 

"The  message  was  for  her,  not  you,  .  .  .  but  .  .  ." 

She  touched  his  hand.     His  whole  body  thrilled. 

He  leaned  forward  and  looked  deeply  into  her 
eyes.  Something  was  there;  something  that  only 
a  son's  eyes  could  recognize.  God  signaled  gently 
out  of  them  .  .  .  out  of  eyes  that  had  become  clear 
and  blue,  that  had  become  the  fathomless  eyes  of 
mother. 

Her  mouth,  now  beautiful  and  full,  trembled. 

Gray  strands  of  her  hair  fluttered  nervously,  as 
if  they  had  known  and  been  waiting. 

He  knew  what  she  was  going  to  say ;  he  knew  I 
Could  it  be  true? 

Infinite  beauty  sat  before  him — gray,  pink  and 
white.  God  smiled.  The  world  spun  around, 
kicked  out  of  the  way ;  the  sun  flamed  out. 

She  spoke.  He  did  not  hear.  He  knew;  he 
knew!  Oh,  God  in  heaven,  at  last,  at  last!  A 
mother  to  kiss  and  say  "mother"  to! 


240  FUKY 

Lamey  grinned  when  the  young  sailor  put  his 
arms  around  old  Tillie's  neck  and  kissed  her  on 
the  lips.  Lamey  did  not  hear  Boy  whisper  in  his 
own  mother's  ear :  "Dog  Leyton  sent  that  for  you." 
Lamey  did  not  understand  that  that  long,  warm 
kiss,  which  made  Tillie  weep  hot  tears  upon  Boy's 
cheek  was  the  kiss  of  all  history. 

And  Tillie  did  not  know;  Boy  meant  that  she 
should  not.  She  only  knew  that  something  had 
happened;  something  that  breathed  of  sunlight 
and  a  forgotten  God  that  smiled  again. 

Boy  sat  back  after  his  hand  had  wiped  her  tears 
away. 

She  looked  at  him,  tremblingly,  wonderingly. 

A  mother  to  kiss  and  say  "mother"  to?  No,  no; 
not  yet! 

The  little  door  at  the  back  slammed.  They 
turned  together.  Tillie  spoke: 

"That's  'im  ye  asked  about!" 

"Who?" 

Then  Boy  knew !    He  knew ! 

A  cry  rang  out: 

"Christ  .  .  .  Morgan!" 

Fury! 

Morgan  stopped.  A  hush  had  fallen.  His  eyes 
blinked;  his  vision  cleared.  He  saw.  Yes,  it  was 
5— it  was  she  looking  up  at  him,  the  beauty  from 
'Millwall,  Dog's  wife  and  his  own  woman  in  Leith, 
the  one  that  was  sick,  the  one  that  was  put  away, 
the  one  he'd  slipped  off  from  when  she  was  down 
and  dying,  when  he  was  tired  of  her. 


FURY  241 

It  was  she!  And  this  wasn't  MacFarlane's. 
The  hair  was  gray,  but  it  was  she,  all  right. 

"Christ!  .  .  .  Morgan!"  that  shout! 

Beside  her,  the  boy;  her  son,  too,  he  was,  look- 
ing like  Dog  looked  the  day  she  left  him  to  go  to 
Leith  to  meet  the  first  mate,  Dog's  first  mate,  the 
shipmate  of  many  long  years;  to  Leith,  to  live  just 
out  of  the  city;  to  wait  for  him,  Morgan. 

He  drew  a  quick  breath. 

Every  one  was  quiet  and  looking  at  him.  Mr. 
Hop  and  the  manager  had  heard  the  shout  and 
appeared  at  the  broken  saloon-bar  door,  and  he 
gazed  across  at  them. 

But  there  weren't  two.    There  was  ona 

And  that  one,  in  a  blue  uniform,  was  sweeping 
towards  him  with  blazing  eyes  and  open  lips;  then 
a  hard  fist  struck  his  mouth.  It  came  before  he 
knew  that  .  .  . 

Two  hands  found  his  throat  as  his  gutta-percha 
collar  tore  loudly. 

Every  one  was  shouting. 

Then  he  threw  that  hissing  blue  body  away  with 
terrific  strength,  back  into  some  tables  and  chairs. 

An  avenue  was  cleared  for  him  and  he  knew 
what  had  happened.  The  rat  had  sprung  at  last! 

Good !  .  .  .  Good !  .  .  .  He'd  never  spring  again 
.  .  .  after  this  once. 

Again  the  packed  bar  yelled  as  another  crushing 
blow  struck  Morgan's  high  cheek-bone,  and  Boy 
jumped  back  clear  and  balanced  upon  two  light- 
ning feet 


242  FURY 

At  the  doors  dirty  forms  surged,  "Back,  back," 
and  outside  in  the  rain  there  was  the  cry :  "A  fight ! 
A  fight!" 

Up  from  the  Robin  Hood  came  every  one, 
squelching  through  puddles,  tripping,  falling, 
floundering.  "A  fight!  A  fight!" 

The  rain  and  creaking  shutters  shouted:  "A 
fight!  A  fight!" 

Luke  surged  in  through  the  saloon,  battling  his 
way  to  the  broken  glass  door,  which  fell  clattering 
as  his  elbow  smashed  against  it. 

"A  fight!"  Some  one  had  knocked  the  police 
whistle  from  Mrs.  Ross'  hand. 

Strong  arms  seized  Looney  Luke  at  the  edge  of 
the  ring,  an  act  encouraged  by  grandstand  auditors 
who  stood  full  up  upon  the  bar. 

"Take  him  out!  Let  him  go!  In  now,  little 
one!" 

Boy  sprang  again,  and  again  his  body  hurled 
back,  down.  His  head  cracked  against  the  boot  of 
a  man  wTho  held  his  mother,  safely,  up  on  the  win- 
dow bench — the  mother  who  knew  it  not,  but  who 
was  strangely  still  and  white,  her  mouth  agape, 
greedily  watching  the  stream  of  blood  from  the  big 
man's  lips  which  he  smeared  across  his  blue  chin, 
as  he  brushed  at  it  hurriedly  because  Boy  rushed 
again. 

Fury! 

Boy!  He  saw  no  faces — yes,  one;  only  one, 
always  there.  One!  And  below  it  a  red  throat 
that  he  must  rip  and  tear. 


FURY  243 

His  fingers  opened.  He  screamed  as  he  leaped, 
a  blood-curdling  scream,  the  scream  of  the  dead 
father  in  its  echo.  Body  and  spirit  parted  in  the 
leap  to  clutch  frantically;  hands  caught  that  red 
throat  again ;  nails  tore  in  that  vein  .  .  .  that  vein 
...  to  rip  it. 

Then  his  legs  left  the  floor.  .  .  .  He  was  swing- 
ing, around  .  .  .  around  .  .  .  around  .  .  .  then 
down. 

A  closed  fist  hit  his  head  at  the  back,  once  .  .  . 
twice  .  .  .  three  times. 

There  was  a  singing  in  his  ears.  His  hands 
opened  wide.  Something  crushed  against  his  nose. 
The  base  of  his  spine  hit  the  floor.  A  boot  thrust 
terribly  at  his  middle;  a  rib  broke — he  felt  it  turn 
in  like  a  knife. 

"No,  no !  No  kickin' !  Fair  play !  Down  him ! 
Down  the  big  'un !"  The  crowd  was  protesting  for 
fair  play. 

"Get  off  me !"  Morgan's  boot  now  kicked  toward 
the  protesters. 

Mr.  Hop's  voice  in  his  ear  said :  "Captain,  stand 
yer  ground.  Finish  'im!" 

Yes,  finish  him!    That  was  right. 

Morgan,  silent,  white  and  waiting.  A  momen- 
tary hush.  Some  one  started  to  count,  just  to  be 
funny.  But  .  .  .  nothing  was  funny. 

"Shut  up!  Don't  touch  'im!  He'll  get  up! 
Watch  'im!  There!  He's  to;  he's  to!" 

Gray-blue  ...  a  distant  roar  .  .  .  tap,  tap,  tap, 
tap  ...  in  deaf  ears  ...  a  smell  .  »  .  funny,  and 


244  FUEY 

something  coming  down  at  the  back  of  his  nose, 
pouring  down,  choking. 

A  spluttering  cough  opened  Boy's  eyes  and 
sprayed  the  sawdust  red. 

The  opened  eyes  saw  that  gas-bracket  overhead 
larger  than  the  world  falling  down,  down  on  him ; 
but  they  did  not  flinch  .  .  .  and  the  gas-bracket 
did  not  fall  .  .  .  and  then  the  eyes  saw  that  face 
looking  down  at  them — Morgan's,  with  a  nose  that 
reached  to  his  chin,  and  eyes  that  sprang  apart  and 
met  again. 

A  struggle  to  rise;  but  his  legs  were  gone  .  .  . 
his  legs  were  gone  .  .  .  his  legs  were  gone! 

The  face  above,  like  the  moon  gone  mad,  spread 
and  laughed.  He  was  dead.  Boy  was  dead,  in 
hell;  .  .  .  tap,  tap,  tap  ...  in  his  ears;  .  .  .  that 
shaft  in  his  side  .  .  .  and  swallow,  swallow,  swal- 
low that  burning  stuff  that  poured  down  behind 
his  nose. 

One  ear  cleared.  A  million  voices:  "Get  up! 
Get  up!"  .  .  .  and  the  face  growing  larger,  stoop- 
ing down. 

His  legs  were  gone  .  .  .  his  legs  were  gone!  A 
scuffle  he  could  not  hear. 

Two  hands  seized  his  dead  face.  Through  one 
ear  he  heard :  "Don't  fight  for  me,  sailor." 

He  saw  another  face;  his  mother's,  wasn't  it? 
.  .  .  his  mother's?  They  were  pulling  her  off; 
away,  and  she  was  screaming  something  that  he 
could  not  hear. 

His  legs!     God  give  him  his  legs! 


FURY  245 

A  roaring  shout.  He  did  not  know,  but  he  had 
started  to  rise.  He  was  coming  up,  up!  He 
stood  and  fell  forward  toward  that  face — Mor- 
gan's. 

Then  Looney  Luke's  voice  screamed:  "God!" 

And  a  hush  fell  as  Boy  crashed  down  again  and 
lay  still. 

Two  policemen,  sharply  blue,  cut  through  a 
struggling,  dirty  mass. 

Every  one  talked ;  every  one  wondered. 

Mrs.  Ross  sat  white  and  mute  in  a  chair  behind 
the  bar. 

The  rain  beat  into  the  policemen's  faces  at  the 
held-open  door  as  they  hurled  one  and  then  another 
sodden  form  into  the  muddy  street. 

Captain  Morgan,  Mr.  Hop  and  the  manager 
walked  quietly  down  Waterfront,  a  small  dimin- 
ishing crowd  behind  them. 

The  bar  door  shut  tight.  Kindly  hands  pulled 
Tillie  gently  away  from  the  prone  form  of  the 
young  sailor  who  had  fought  for  her,  the  one  who 
was  just  like  a  little  prince;  and  she  followed 
quietly  as  they  carried  his  limp  body  into  the 
saloon  bar  and  sat  him  in  the  horsehair  chair. 

His  head  fell  forward. 

Then  Mrs.  Ross  came  in  with  a  bowl  of  water, 
pushing  Tillie  aside  to  gaze  horror-stricken  into 
the  pulp  that  had  been  Boy's  face. 

Luke  quietly  drew  her  attention  to  where  Boy's 
bleeding  hand  caught  sharply  at  a  place  on  his  side, 
and  the  hand  of  Mrs.  Ross  crept  tenderly  under  his 


246  FURY 

coat  and  then  under  his  shirt  and  felt  there  while 
she  looked  up,  frightened. 

Tillie  aisked  a  furtive  question.  Mrs.  Boss 
pushed  her  roughly  away,  and  looked  frantically 
around  the  little  room  that  was  rapidly  filling 
again. 

"Get  a  doctor,  one  of  you !    He's  hurt  to  death." 

Some  on-e  scuffled  out  at  the  door. 

Tillie  sank  on  her  knees  and  the  sound  of  muffled 
sobbing  came  from  her. 

But  Boy  did  not  hear.  He  could  hear  nothing 
of  earth.  He  swirled  past  clouds  hung  high  above 
black,  angry  seas.  Wind  shrieked  and  he  peered 
down.  There  was  no  ship  upon  the  waters ;  waters 
that  he  did  not  know;  a  sea  of  another  sphere. 
But  he  could  hear  its  laughing,  taunting  wash. 

Sailors  might  be  below,  asleep. 

Oh,  but  to  drop  and  sink  beneath  that  inky  sur- 
face .  .  .  down,  down,  to  black  oblivion  ...  to 
silence ! 

Desperately  he  gazed  up,  and  through  a  tiny 
patch  in  that  black  cloud  came  a  light  that  burned 
his  face,  scorching  his  hair,  burning  him;  then  a 
cool  breeze  swept  him  on  into  clear  blue  and  some- 
where in  the  distance  an  angel's  voice  seemed 
calling.  .  .  . 

The  clouds  had  passed  and  the  wind  and  the 
wash  were  hushed. 

There  was  nothing  but  blue  and  that  voice  .  .  . 
Min's  voice,  calling  ...  in  the  vague  distance, 
"Boy  .  .  .  Boy  .  .  .  Boyee!" 


CHAPTER  XII 

MIN,  also,  was  having  her  adventures  during 
this  absorbing  period. 

When  Mrs.  Ross  had  laid  Min  upon  the 
bed  the  little  laughing  girl  had  seemed  strangely 
quiet,  suddenly.  So  she  had  turned  the  light  down 
and  left  carefully  to  go  downstairs  to  her  work 
behind  the  bar;  and  her  first  order  had  been  Boy's 
when  he  had  asked  her  for  that  glass  of  double 
gin. 

Mins  don't  faint  and  pass  out,  and  it  was  only 
by  the  sheerest  chance  that  Min  had  lost  control; 
the  slight  chance  of  the  cigarette-end  that  sets  the 
factory  ablaze  and  kills  a  hundred  people. 

So  now  she  lay  quiet,  her  eyes  open,  pressed 
against  the  pillow,  curiously  exhausted.  She  felt 
as  though  she  had  run  ten  miles  without  stopping 
and  her  heart  against  the  bed  thumped  beneath 
her.  Her  leg  kicked,  heel  up,  in  the  air  convul- 
sively and  the  entire  bed  commenced  to  swing 
slowly  from  side  to  side,  higher  and  higher, 
swifter  and  swifter,  like  the  Hampstead  holiday 
swing,  until  it  swung  her  out  of  the  room,  over  and 
over,  back  across  Limehouse;  and  Ma  Brent  was 
looking  up  at  her,  waiting,  but  Min  wasn't  a  bit 
afraid. 

What  did  she  care?    The  bloody  bed  could  swing 

247 


248  FURY 

itself  to  death  and  Ma  Brent  could  climb  up,  if 
she'd  a  mind  to,  and  do  otherwise  as  she  damn 
well  liked. 

So,  of  course,  the  bed  swung  back  into  The 
Thistle  bedroom.  Beds  or  any  other  things  that 
swing  or  jump  or  behave  absurdly  in  illusions  will 
go  back  and  stay  quiet  if  the  little  person  riding 
upon  them  is  not  afraid ;  and  Mins  are  not  afraid. 

She  peeped  up  over  her  shoulder.  Yes,  the 
blinkin'  room  was  there  all  right;  it  would  be.  It 
had  been  there  all  the  time.  Yes,  Min  knew  that. 

Then,  for  some  extraordinary  reason,  she  started 
to  sing  right  into  the  pillow : 

"Father  got  the  sack  from  the  water-works, 
Through  smokin'  his  little  cherry  briar  .  .  ." 

And  she  sang  right  on  until  she  came  to  that  bit 
about  setting  the  water-works  on  fire  and  then  she 
laughed  into  the  pillow.  She  always  did  laugh  at 
that  bit. 

Then  her  head  came  up.  No;  she'd  better  be 
careful  and  not  laugh.  She  mightn't  be  able  to 
stop! 

She  thought  steadily  for  a  moment.  Yes,  she'd 
always  be  afraid  to  laugh  again,  now.  She'd  be 
afraid  she  wouldn't  be  able  to  stop.  Blimey,  that 
was  a  funny  one! 

She  recalled  a  sailor  who  used  to  sing  a  laughing 
song  when  he  got  drunk  and  once  he'd  run  away 
with  himself.  How  she'd  laughed  at  him !  They 
all  had.  And  Min  started  laughing  again,  and 


FUEY  249 

again  she  couldn't  stop,  so  she  stuffed  the  sheet 
into  her  mouth.  It  made  her  retch,  but  finally  it 
stopped  her  laughing;  then  again  that  feeling  of 
terrible  exhaustion. 

She  sighed  heavily  and  her  hand  gripped  some- 
thing very  soft — the  pink  nightdress.  Boy  would 
never  see  that  now !  Poor  boy — what  he'd  missed ! 
He  could  have  seen  that  nightdress  with  Min  in 
it!  What  a  silly  boy  he  was!  He'd  sooner  get 
drunk  and  kill  somebody,  and  sit  down  with  that 
old,  old  tot  .  .  .  and  then  she  remembered  his 
smile  at  that  old  tot — his  smile  that  belonged  to 
her! 

Eve  woke  within  her.  That  was  her  smile,  her 
own.  And  .  .  .  her  smile  to  go  to  that  dirty, 
frowsy  old  creature. 

She  sat  up.     Boy,  blimey,  Boy  with  that! 

But  from  somewhere  Pinkie's  voice  came  to  her: 

"You're  on  the  threshold  of  Life's  sweetest 
journey.  Stick  to  your  man.  He's  yours.  God 
gave  him  to  you." 

Yes,  he  was  hers,  hers,  hers!  And  no  dirty  old 
sailors'  tot  was  going  to  take  him  away  from 
her! 

She  felt  suddenly  weary.  Heigho,  she'd  rest  a 
bit,  first.  You  don't  have  to  be  in  a  mad  temper 
when  you've  got  to  manage  those  dirty,  hateful, 
rotten  old  sailors'  tots! 

Her  head  fell  back  upon  the  bed.  Yes ;  that  was 
right.  Any  kind  of  girl  goes  down  into  a  bar  and 
rants  and  fights  for  a  man.  Other  kinds  of  girls 


250  FURY 

did  that;  and  if  she  did  that  she'd  look  like  one 
of  those  other  kinds  of  girls.  No,  there  was  an- 
other way.  What? 

She  lay  silently,  her  mind  seizing  upon  this, 
upon  that,  discarding  each  new  idea  with  a  heavy 
sigh. 

Inspiration!  A  note — a  note!  Yes,  she'd  send 
a  note  down  to  Mrs.  Ross  to  give  to  him !  Oh,  she 
could  write!  She  used  to  make  out  a  list  of  gro- 
ceries and  things  every  day  for  Ma  Brent. 

She'd  have  to  send  a  note  because  she  couldn't 
trust  herself  to  say  what  she  wanted  to  in  front 
of  that  dirty  old  tot.  A  note,  that  was  it ! 

As  she  scrambled  up,  a  sound  came  up  from  the 
street  below.  She  heard  some  one  shouting:  "A 
fight!  A  fight!"  and  some  glass  smashed. 

Go  on,  blast  'em  all!  Let  'em  fight  it  out!  Let 
'em  fight! — it  wasn't  nothing  to  do  with  her,  was 
it?  She'd  mind  her  own  concern;  and  she  had  a 
concern  now,  all  right:  first  to  find  a  bit  of  pencil 
and  then  some  paper  .  .  .  and  that  was  concern 
enough. 

There  you  are;  whenever  you  want  something  ye 
never  can  find  it,  now,  can  ye? 

Hooray !  Pen  and  ink !  Yes !  This  was  a  hotel, 
wasn't  it? 

She  did  not  know  that  once  upon  a  time  Angus 
Ross,  who  was  always  fussy  about  that  hotel  side 
of  his  business,  had  asked  Mrs.  Ross  always  to  see 
to  the  pen  and  ink  and  paper  and  towels  in  Num- 
bers 1  and  2,  as  he  had  always  proudly  called  the 


FURY  251 

only  two  letting  rooms  in  the  house,  and  Mrs.  Ross 
had  always  carried  out  Angus'  wishes. 

And  so  the  pen,  who  had  heard  Mrs.  Ross  tell 
all  this  to  that  one  last  boarder,  four  years  ago, 
thrilled  as  it  was  caught  up  in  these  light,  trem- 
bling fingers. 

Pens  have  such  good  memories,  such  sweet  na- 
tures, and  such  emotional  moments !  And  this  pen 
was  a  plaid  one,  "The  Gordon  plaid,"  Mrs.  Ross 
had  remarked  when  her  late  husband  had  brought 
it  home  with  two  others.  This  pen  now  supposed 
the  other  two  had  been  lost  or  worn  out,  but  it 
thrilled  and  knew  that  it  lived  now  because  di- 
rected by  Min's  fingers  it  dived  into  the  cool,  blue 
ink  and  made  some  preliminary  marks. 

Neither  Min  nor  the  plaid  pen  heard  through 
their  mutual  adventure  the  crashes  and  shouts 
below.  A  pen  is  a  sweet,  silent,  distracting  com- 
panion and  adventures  are  so  possible  with  one; 
this  was  this  pen's  adventure  with  Min,  as  the  pen 
itself  related  it  upon  the  sheet  of  paper  there  and 
then  provided: 

"Dere  Boy,  I  hop  you  are  quite  well.  .  .  ." 

At  this  point  a  lot  of  fun  was  enjoyed  because 
reams  of  paper  were  destroyed,  and  pens  love  be- 
ginning things;  sometimes  they  tire  towards  the 
finish. 

"...  I  want  to  speak  to  you  about  sumthink. 
.  .  .  Yur  mine  whatever  you  may  say.  ...  I 


252  FUEY 

ain't  agoing  rong  as  I  sed  becaus  it  ain't  rite  to  do 
rong  with  a  thing  that  ain't  yur  own  is  it?  And 
I  ain't  mine  becaus  I'm  yurs  and  I  want  to  giv 
you  back  sumthink  thats  yurs  just  as  if  you  mite 
have  dropt  it  like.  I  remane 
Yurs  truly, 

MIN." 

A  long,  arduous  fight,  this,  of  sighs  and  worry- 
ings.  The  pen  had  watched  amusedly  the  little  red 
tongue  above  poking  out  hither  and  thither  ...  a 
kindly,  lonely  old  pen  this,  who  loved  youth  and 
who  seemed  to  understand ;  it  was  a  pen  that  knew 
its  strength;  a  pen  that  was  conscious  of  the  tra- 
dition of  its  Gordon  plaid;  a  pen  that  knew  with 
pride  that  it  was  mightier  than  the  sword. 

It  had  laughed  softly  to  itself,  the  ink  drying  on 
its  lips  as  it  heard  that  little  human  being  run 
downstairs.  It  felt  hot  and  was  still  conscious  of 
her  damp  grip  upon  its  slender  body. 

It  had  also  heard  her  startled  cry  from  below 
and  wondered.  Pens  never  hear  their  answers. 

Entering  the  saloon,  with  her  letter  in  her  hand, 
Min  had  screamed  on  seeing  whom  they  were  bend- 
ing over  in  the  chair.  All  restraint  gone,  she  had 
rushed  forward  and  slung  that  dirty  old  tot  away, 
savagely.  Even  when  the  old  woman  was  upon 
the  floor  she  threatened  her.  Somehow  she'd  im- 
mediately associated  this  grotesque,  sobbing  old 
bag  of  rags  with  .  .  . 

She  held  Boy's  head  up,  her  hot  hand  upon  his 
forehead.  It  was  then  that  Boy  had  sensed  that 


FURY  253 

light  above  him  and  that  scorching  burn  npon  his 
head.  It  was  then  that  he  had  drifted  into  peace- 
ful blue  and  his  ears  had  caught  that  angel's  voice 
calling  .  .  .  calling  .  .  .  "Boy  .  .  .  Boy  .  .  .. 
Boyee!" 
His  eyes  opened  .  .  .  Min  .  s  . 


CHAPTEB  XIII 

WITH  the  hot,  nervous  stride  of  a  summer's 
day  upon  its  way  to  its  inevitable  dawn, 
so  Boy's  senses  advanced  upon  his  night 
.  .  .  fragment  by  fragment  the  puzzle  was  pieced 
together  from  the  Mlt  of  brave  Angus  upon  the 
wall  to  the  white  little  face  of  Min  looking  up  at 
him.  Noises  became  voices  and  blotches  became 
faces. 

Glancing  down  upon  himself  he  knew  he  had  a 
body,  an  aching  thing,  hanging  suspended  in  mid- 
air upon  a  bayonet  thrust  into  its  side. 

His  hand  came  up  and  touched  a  mountain  of 
flesh  near  one  of  his  eyes.  He  did  not  know  which 
one. 

And  then  with  a  vague  tick  .  .  .  tick  .  .  .  tick 
...  a  flywheel  in  his  brain  functioned,  and 
thoughts  leaped  pell-mell  through  the  door  outside 
of  which  they  had  been  patiently  waiting.  The 
first  thought  to  get  in  asked  "Mother?"  and  obedi- 
ent eyes  searched  like  silent,  well-trained  servants 
of  the  mind,  and  quickly  found  a  little  figure,  hud- 
dled, looking  at  him  from  the  corner. 

His  vast,  swollen  upper-lip  stretched;  the  skin 
broke  asunder  as  he  smiled,  and  the  hand  that  Min 
did  not  hold  stretched  out  to  the  little  figure  that 
took  a  step  forward.  Min's  head  turned: 

254 


FURY  255 

"Get  back  there,  you!  He's  mine!  Get  out 
before  .  .  ." 

And  Boy's  hand  pulled  suddenly  away  from  hers. 

Lamey,  Red  and  about  three  others  from  The 
Spray  stood  around,  talking  in  low  voices. 

Mrs.  Ross  was  speaking  to  a  policeman  with  his 
helmet  off,  who  was  writing  in  a  book,  a  glass  of 
beer  upon  the  table  at  his  side. 

Two  others,  not  of  The  Spray,  had  gone  for  the 
doctor. 

Luke  had  followed  them  as  they  had  rushed  out. 

Now  there  was  a  hush  as  Boy  made  a  sound. 
Both  arms  came  out  to  old  Tillie  who  was  moving 
slowly  to  him,  her  eyes  upon  his  face. 

And  suddenly  Min  screamed,  "Get  back,  or  I'll 
brain  yer.  'E's  mine!  'E's  mine!" 

Tillie  faltered;  she  did  not  speak.  She  just 
stood  there,  her  eyes  on  Boy's  broken  face. 

Boy  rose,  haltingly.  He  swayed  and  then  stood 
straight. 

Min  caught  his  arm. 

His  hand  came  out.  She  took  it;  but  his  eyes 
were  upon  the  little  gray  figure  who  now  stood 
within  a  foot  of  him,  looking  up.  She  seemed  in 
a  trance.  Why  didn't  some  one  say  something? 

Boy  swayed. 

A  voice  rang  out;  Tillie's  voice:  "Who  is  this 
man?  Who?  Who?  Christ,  take  his  eyes  away! 
Who  is  he?  Who?" 

Lamey  caught  her  arm.  She'd  gone  off  her 
chump,  for  a  cert! 


256  FURY 

"Who  is  he?    Who  is  he?" 

Boy's  mouth  moved,  but  only  a  husky  sound 
came. 

It  was  Min's  voice  that  answered,  loud  and 
shrill:  "If  ye  want  to  know,  'e's  Boy  Leyton,  an' 
'e's  mine!  'E's  mine!"  And  she  left  Boy's  side 
and  advanced  threateningly. 

Boy  made  a  tragic  effort  and  then  fell  suddenly 
back  into  the  chair,  but  no  one  seemed  to  notice 
him. 

Two  women  faced  each  other.  Another  fight? 
.  .  .  No! 

Mrs.  Boss  and  the  policeman  swept  forward. 
The  men  edged  round. 

"Boy  Leyton!" 

The  little  gray  figure  caught  Red's  arm  that  still 
held  her. 

"Dog  Ley  ton's  boy?" 

"That's  it."  Red's  voice  was  not  excited;  it 
never  was. 

Min  advanced  a  step.     "And  what  about  it?" 

A  sudden  cry;  a  scramble.  Min  and  men  were 
brushed  aside  like  feathers.  Have  you  ever  known 
a  mother's  strength?  A  gray  head  hid  Boy's  face, 
and  a  voice  was  heard  to  say:  "Mine!  .  .  .  My 
own !" 

A  silence  fell.  Even  Min  did  not  move.  The 
lights  seemed  somehow  brighter.  Holy  spirits 
seemed  to  be  there  in  the  room.  They  watched  in 
silence  as  Boy's  lips  moved  and  he  said,  "Mother!" 
Everybody  heard  Mm. 


FURY  257 

Vividly  Min  recalled  Boy's  story  told  that  very 
day  in  that  very  room.  Yes,  the  mother  he  was  to 
find,  and  here  she  was! 

Boy's  mother;  the  mother  he  had  always  told 
her  he  wondered  about.  They  had  played  mothers 
once,  each  making  up  out  of  their  minds  just  what 
they  thought  each  of  their  mothers  must  be  like; 
hers  and  his,  and  now  .  .  . 

A  rough  voice  outside — Mr.  Hop's — :  "All  hands 
The  Lady  Spray!  Come  on!"  An  answering 
movement  in  the  room.  Some  one  repeated:  "All 
hands  The  Lady  Spray!" 

And  Boy  heard  and  rose,  suddenly,  to  his  feet. 

His  little  mother  rose  with  him,  Min  mutely 
watching  them.  He  smiled  and  brought  his  two 
arms  together.  His  mother  in  one  and  the  other 
that  which  he  had  stretched  out  for  Min  and  she 
in  it. 

They  met  awkwardly,  silently  .  .  .  Mother  and 
Min. 

Then  Boy's  hand  found  his  pocket  and  as  he 
stepped  forward,  his  purse  dropped  to  the  floor, 
because  the  effort  and  the  pain  of  his  rib  had 
nearly  overbalanced  him.  Red  caught  his  arm. 

Min  spoke:  "Yer  not  goin'?" 

Mrs.  Ross  barred  his  way  as  he  moved  toward 
the  door.  "No,  no;  he  can't!  He  can't  go!" 

Even  Red  said:  "Ye'd  better  jump  ship,  Boy." 

Boy  laughed.  It  was  rather  an  awful  laugh; 
and  with  a  stumbling  effort,  he  pulled  his  mother 
and  Min  together  and  pointed  down  at  the  pnrse 


258  FURY 

upon  the  floor  which  he  could  in  no  wise  have 
picked  up. 

"Wait  ...  for  me  ...  see?  .  .   .  Both  .   .   ." 

Then  towards  the  door,  almost  falling. 

The  three  women  and  Red  surged  forward  to 
stop  him.  Luke  arrived  with  the  doctor  to  bar 
his  way.  Bed  held  his  arm. 

Seeing  Luke  Boy's  hands  went  out.  "Take  me, 
Luke." 

Luke  came  and  took  his  arm  immediately. 
"Here's  the  doctor,  Boy." 

Boy's  voice  rang  out:  "Doctor? — hell!" 

He  paused  and  swayed  there  in  Luke's  grip  and 
turned  with  a  swinging  gesture  to  the  room 
wherein  Min  held  his  mother,  whose  eyes  had 
closed. 

"Wait  fer  me  .  .  .  London,  see?" 

He  fell  out  of  the  room  between  Luke  and 
Bed. 

Mrs.  Ross  and  Min  laid  Tillie  down  and  the 
doctor  stepped  forward  to  them. 

Outside  in  the  rain  Red  and  Luke  spoke  at  once 
to  the  sagging  form  that  hung  between  them  and 
what  they  said  caused  the  sagging  form  to 
straighten  convulsively. 

"Take  me  aboard,  blast  ye!  I'm  mate!  Obey, 
will  ye?  Come  on!" 

Luke's  voice:  "But  ye're  mad — mad!" 

"Mad?     Hell!     Come  on!" 

'And  they  moved  slowly  on  and  down. 


FURY  259 

The  world  smiled  .  .  .  just  a  drunken  sailor 
sagging  between  two  mates. 

A  drunken  sailor,  yes  .  .  .  but  drunk  with  .  .  . 
fury! 


CHAPTER  XIV 

SOMEWHEKE  near  the  waterfront  a  church 
bell  struck  nine  and  somewhere  near  the 
waterfront,  in  a  little  back  room,  somewhere, 
the  snoring  form  of  some  one  turned  upon  a  twisted 
ugly  bed.  Then  the  form  rose,  clad  only  in  a 
flannel  shirt. 

"Where  are  ye?" 

Wet  wind  through  a  piece  of  brown  paper  stuck 
over  a  hole  in  the  window  flickered  the  worn 
mantel  of  the  incandescent  light  sillily. 

"Where  are  ye?" 

A  motor  horn  in  the  vague  distance  answered 
mockingly. 

An  awful  oath  rang  in  the  little  room,  and 
Clancey  half  fell  towards  the  light  to  pull  the 
string  and  in  the  increased  illumination  gazed 
around  blinkingly. 

His  hand  went  to  his  sweating,  throbbing 
temples. 

What  time  was  it?  and  where  had  she  gone  to? 
He  was  alone. 

Let's  see,  yes,  he  was  in  Leith,  but  where? 

He  fell  over  the  washbowl  which  sat  flatly  upon 
the  floor. 

He  swore  again.  She'd  done  a  bunk  on  him! 
She  had  and  all!  What  time  was  it? 

260 


F  U  E  Y  261 

Some  one  was  going  by  the  door.  He  crossed 
and  opened  it  an  inch.  The  passer  was  a  tall  man 
with  a  lighted  match  in  his  hand. 

"What  time  is  it,  mate?" 

"Nine  o'clock/'  a  heavy  voice  boomed  at  him. 

Clancey  slammed  the  door.  The  wind  helped 
him  and  an  absurd  valentine  card  fell  from  the 
wall. 

Nine  o'clock !  Blast !  The  Spray  was  out ;  gone ; 
cleared!  Here  was  a  nice  kettle  of  fish! 

A  pint  bottle  showed  three  inches  yellow  up  from 
the  bottom.  Good !  His  lips  closed  greedily  round 
the  neck.  Ah,  .  .  .  good! 

Clancey  slapped  his  chest.  That  was  an  eye- 
opener!  Now  he'd  get  out  and  get  a  bite  to  eat. 
The  whiskey  burned. 

Where  had  she  gone?  that  girl?  There  was  the 
peg  she'd  hung  the  certain  kind  of  tam-o'-shanter 
on.  Pretty  hair  she  had. 

So  she'd  'opped  it,  'ad  she?  They  'ad  no  con- 
science, they  'adn't.  She  didn't  live  here;  no; 
she'd  said  that.  He'd  had  to  tread  quietly  up  those 
creaking  stairs. 

He  hiccoughed.  The  whiskey  burned ;  and  he  sat 
down  on  the  bed.  Where  was  this  place?  Near  the 
water,  anyway,  for  there  was  a  siren.  So  The  Lady 
Spray  was  out?  Well,  what  about  another  sleep? 
Where'd  that  girl  gone? 

Look,  look!  What  was  that?  That,  under 
there !  TJ?h !  Only  his  boot.  No ;  he'd  better  get 
out;  it  would  be  cooler.  He  was  burning  up. 


262  FURY 

It  had  been  a  good  bust,  but  it  had  ended  too 
soon. 

Where'd  she  gone,  that  girl? 

He  wandered  around.  What  was  he  looking 
for?  Where  had  she  gone?  What  was  he  looking 
for?  He  had  forgotten.  Ah  .  .  .  his  trousers, 
that  was  it!  Where  were  they?  No;  not  there. 
But  that  was  where  he  had  put  them — on  that 
chair. 

Blimey!     His  money  was  in  them! 

He  suddenly  woke  fully  and  searched  and 
knocked  things  down  and  tripped  over  the  wash- 
bowl again  .  .  .  twice;  he  looked  under  the  dirty 
bed  and  on  the  dirty  bed  that  hadn't  any  sheets. 

She'd  bunked  with  them! 

The  dirty  skirt !  She'd  hopped  it  with  his  brass 
and  his  trousers,  so  that  he  couldn't  chase  her! 
And  he'd  missed  The  Spray. 

What  was  he  going  to  do  now?  He  sat  very  still. 
What  dirty,  rotten,  stinking  things  women  were! 
And  he'd  cottoned  up  to  this  one,  too!  She'd  told 
him  about  her  kid  and  he'd  given  her  half  a  crown 
to  send  him  in  a  postal  order.  Now  she'd  gone 
and  done  him  down ! 

He  reached  forward  for  the  bottle.  Hell,  it  was 
empty!  In  his  rage  he  threw  it  from  him,  out 
through  the  window,  smashing  the  glass.  He'd  get 
out  and  find  her,  the  dirty  .  .  . 

A  shout  from  below. 

He  crossed  and  looked  out  of  the  window.    Some 


FURY  263 

men  and  a  woman  were  looking  up  and  as  his  head 
came  out,  there  was  another  shout. 

"What's  up?"  he  called. 

"Come  down  here,"  some  one  answered. 

"I  can't!"  he  laughed. 

"Come  down!"  several  shouted. 

Then  something  whispered  that  something  was 
wrong,  and  he  withdrew  his  head.  What  was  up? 
What  was  up?  What's  it  about? 

A  thumping  on  the  stairs;  hammering  at  the 
door;  a  woman's  voice  screaming;  the  door  flew 
open  and  a  heavy  man  stood  there,  and  a  fat 
woman  behind  him. 

Without  warning  or  sound  the  heavy  man  rushed 
in  and  smashed  and  Clancey  fell.  A  policeman 
came  in. 

"Who  is  he?" 

Then  the  fat  woman  spoke:  "Dunno.  'Ee  ain't 
no  right  in  this  'ouse.  I'm  the  landlady." 

"Get  out  in  the  'all,  ma'am;  he  ain't  dressed." 
And  the  policeman  and  heavy  man  watched 
Clancey  stagger  up. 

Before  he  could  speak,  the  policeman  seized  him. 
"Where's  yer  trooserrrs?" 

"Dunno.    What's  up?    What's  it  about?" 

Without  a  word,  the  heavy  man  hit  him  again 
and  Clancey  charged  and  kicked. 

The  police  whistle  screamed.  The  whiskey 
burned  and  Clancey  went  mad  and  ran  down  into 
the  street,  terror  in  his  eyes. 


264  FURY 

What  was  it  all  about?  Get  out!  Smash!  and 
he  caught  some  one  in  the  face  as  he  ran. 

A  rising  cry  came  up.     "Madman!     Madman!" 

A  way  cleared  for  him  as  he  ran  through  the 
rain  in  his  shirt,  the  crowd  after  him.  A  police- 
man's truncheon  felled  him.  He  scrambled  up  and 
fought  and  bit  and  kicked  until  the  truncheon 
crashed  again,  terribly. 

"What's  up?  What's  up?  Who  is  he?"  and  the 
police  sergeant,  whose  truncheon  had  stopped  the 
flight,  threw  his  cape  over  the  prostrate  form 
which  was  probably  dead,  and  pushed  back  the 
crowd  from  the  doorway. 

Then  the  other  policeman  and  the  heavy  man 
came  up  on  the  run. 

"Did  ye  get  him?" 

The  sergeant  answered  with  a  question,  which 
the  policeman  answered:  "They  was  comin'  up 
from  market." 

The  sergeant  interrupted:  "Who?" 

"This  mon  and  his  Missus  with  their  bairn." 
The  policeman  indicated  the  heavy  man.  "And  the 
looney  was  hidin'  there  up  in  Number  fourteen, 
where  I  found  him  without  his  clothes,  up  at  Mrs. 
Reid's,  and  he  threw  a  bottle  from  the  window  and 
cut  the  baby's  head  open." 

"Where's  the  baby?" 

"Off  at  the  doctor's." 

The  crowd  surged  forward.  A  sailor  gone  mad 
had  brained  a  baby !  Forward  and  back  it  surged. 
The  news  spread  to  The  Robin  Hood  across  the 


FURY  265 

way  and  men  and  women  stumbled  across  through, 
the  rain.  A  naked,  mad  sailor  had  brained  a  baby  I 
The  girl  in  the  certain  kind  of  tam-o'-shanter 
touched  the  arm  of  the  girl  who  was  with  her  and 
shivered. 

"There  'e  is!    Look,  'e'»  dead!" 

A  voice  at  her  side  volunteered:  "He  was  mad 
and  they  killed  him." 

"Good  job,  too,"  remarked  the  girl  under  the 
certain  kind  of  tam-o'-shanter.  "Fancy  killin'  a 
little  baby!"  She  turned  away,  horrified. 

From  a  pair  of  naked,  hairy,  wet  legs,  peeping 
from  under  a  policeman's  cape,  with  a  thin  streak 
of  red,  trickling  down  to  the  gutter,  mingling  un- 
willingly with  the  rain. 

So  "a  gal  or  two"  turned  away  from  a  tragic 
sight. 

"  'Ave  a  good  time,"  Clancey  had  said.  "Tell 
the  world  to  go  an'  choke  itself.  .  .  .  I've  seen  a 
bit  o'  life  in  my  time!  .  .  .  Take  a  tip  from  yer 
Uncle  Clan." 

.  .  .  the  world  to  choke  itself !  .  .  .  Ha,  ha !  He 
had  called  the  world  and  the  world  had  answered 
with  a  lightning  thrust. 

Choke  it,  would  you,  little  man?  .  .  .  Fury! 


CHAPTER  XV 

A 'OTHER  bedroom;  a  tiny,  ordered,  proper 
little  room,  smelling  sweet  and  dusted  clean, 
fragrant  and  with  fresh  curtains  and  clean, 
white  walls  because  Mrs.  Ross  had  promised  dear 
Angus  it  always  should  be  so. 

And  now,  pink  and  white,  Min,  alone,  was  very 
busy,  hurrying  to  do  something.  One  after  another 
she  folded  garments  that  looked  dirty  and  out  of 
keeping  with  other  things  in  the  room.  But  Min 
shook  and  folded  them  tenderly. 

Then  she  crossed  to  the  door  and  listened.  Some 
one  was  in  the  bathroom.  She  could  hear  the 
sound  of  running  water.  There  was  a  moment  yet. 
She  swept  back  into  the  room,  the  pink  folds  of 
her  nightdress  clinging  round  her  figure  prettily. 

Crossing  to  the  bed,  she  smoothed  and  patted  the 
pillows.  The  rose-glass  stood  at  the  side,  but  the 
roses  were  gone;  but  never  mind,  she'd  leave  the 
glass.  The  roses  had  been  there  just  the  same,  and 
roses  didn't  die  if  you've  seen  them.  That  is,  those 
you  kept  back  of  your  eyes  didn't. 

Min  was  strangely  calm  and  she  swept  about  the 
room  doing  odd,  significant  things,  with  a  grace 
that  belonged  rather  to  a  sweeping,  pink  beauty  of 
another  day. 

266 


FURY  267 

She  hesitated  and  then  drew  from  a  new  brown 
bag  a  nightdress  of  flannelette.  It  rested  against 
her  face.  Yes,  it  was  aired,  all  right. 

Spreading  it  upon  the  bed,  she  stood  up  and 
pulled  one  of  her  arms  out  of  the  gown  of  wedding 
pink,  the  new,  soft  one. 

A  furtive  glance  at  the  door,  and  she  let  the 
gown  fall,  shimmering  to  her  feet,  and  stood  for 
an  instant  naked  .  .  .  pink  and  white. 

Then  she  put  her  little  arms  into  the  flannelette 
and  stood  up  so  that  it  fell  and  covered  her. 
Something  beautifully  suggestive  of  God's  perfec- 
tion fluttered  for  a  moment  before  our  eyes  .  .  .. 
a  woman — a  young  woman. 

Her  face  had  never  glowed  like  this  before,  com- 
posed and  beautiful.  Perhaps  because  she  had 
longed  for  this  night;  perhaps,  but  .  .  . 

Why  had  she  changed  that  nightdress?  She  had 
had  some  good  reason.  She  must  have  had,  she 
had  done  it  so  deliberately. 

She  waited  at  the  door,  glancing  around  the 
room  furtively  to  see  that  all  was  in  readiness. 

She  heard  the  bathroom  door  open  and  some  one 
coming  forward.  She  stood  aside  as  Mrs.  Boss 
came  in,  her  arm  about  the  shoulders  of  a  little 
some  one  wrapped  in  a  blanket,  some  one  with  gray 
hair  falling  down.  Min  took  the  other  arm. 

"I  left  her  a  nightdress  on  the  bed,  ma'am.  Will 
ye  'elp  her."  Averting  her  head  sweetly  she  busied 
herself  with  something  in  the  new  brown  bag  until 
she  heard  Mrs.  Ross  say,  "There  ye  are  now.  Kick 


268  FURY 

those  slippers  off.  That's  right.  Now  down  into 
bed." 

Min  stood  and  watched  the  gray  hair  sink  gently 
upon  the  soft,  white  pillow  and,  moving  around  to 
the  other  side  of  the  bed,  she  stood  as  though  she 
wanted  to  help. 

Some  one  called  Mrs.  Ross  from  downstairs. 

"I  can  manage  now,  ma'am.  Thanks,"  Min 
murmured. 

"Good-night,  then.  Ring  if  ye  want  anything," 
and  Mrs.  Ross  left. 

"Good  night,"  said  Min,  "and  thank  ye." 

She  stood  for  a  moment  nervously  still.  She  had 
begged  Mrs.  Ross  for  this ;  but  now  she  felt  afraid. 

The  gray  head  upon  the  pillow,  the  face  averted, 
was  so  still,  and  tiny  beads  of  perspiration  stood 
out  upon  the  bit  of  wrinkled  forehead  that  she 
could  see.  The  hot  bath  had  caused  that.  The 
head  moved  and  a  face  looked  around  at  her  and 
held  for  a  moment,  drifting  gently  into  a  smile. 

Min's  fear  left  her.  She  stretched  over  across 
the  bed  and  put  her  arms  around  that  neck,  pillow 
and  all,  and  whispered:  "Are  ye  all  right  .  .  . 
Mother?" 

Min's  little  lips  kissed  Boy's  mother's  cheek  and 
held  there.  "Ye  told  me  to  call  ye  'Mother.'  Do 
ye  still  mind,  Mother?" 

The  other  woman's  voice  was  firm.  Life  sprang 
into  it  with  a  thrill  of  tenderness  and  love. 

A  graceful  ship,  tossed  and  battered  in  a  hope- 
less storm  of  awful  years,  lay  to  suddenly  in  calm 


269 

waters,  and  raised  her  breathless  prow  gracefully, 
proudly,  in  the  storm's  hushed  lull. 

Good  salvage!     A  ship  to  sail  again!     Almost 
trim!    A  worthy  ship,  as  good  as  any  ship  afloat! 
"You  dear,  sweet  lamb,  kiss  me  .  .  .  little  girl 
.  .  .  hold  me  tight!" 

Thin  arms  came  up  in  thin,  pink  sleeves  and 
drew  Min  in  the  flannelette  close.  Neither  could 
speak,  because  both  were  weeping,  and  Min's  arm, 
the  one  with  the  pins  and  needles  in  it,  lifted  and 
she  hopped  up  and  turned  out  the  light,  opened 
the  window  a  little  way,  and  tiptoed  back  to  the 
bed. 

Then  she  stepped  in  and  drew  the  clean,  cool 
bedclothes  about  them  both  and  her  arm  went 
round  the  thin  waist  beside  her.  She  could  feel 
the  thump,  thump  of  a  beating  heart  beneath  her 
hand.  A  gentle  voice  kissed  her  ears: 
"God  bless  you!" 

Silence.     And  then  Min  said:  "God  bless  our 
Boy."     The  other's  entire  body  turned,  trembling. 
"I  was  a-thinkin'  that,  then.    God  bless  our  Boy. 
Our  own  Boy." 

After  all,  they  were  women,  weren't  they? 
And  so  they  commenced  to  chat  very  quietly  of 
Boy,  murmuring  endless,  wonderful  whispers  of 
their  Boy,  pulsating  with  hope.  Of  course,  all 
would  be  well.  How  could  it  be  otherwise?  He 
was  their  Boy,  wasn't  he? 

Neither  had  knelt  to  pray,  because  neither  ever 
had.     They  did  not  know  that  way;  but  God  gets 


270  FURY 

many  kinds  of  prayers  and  understands  them  all, 
and  He  understands  best,  perhaps,  the  silent, 
hopeful  prayers  direct  to  Him  from  gentle,  human 
souls. 

And  the  sun  peeped  in  at  them  through  the  win- 
dow when  the  dawn  came,  smiling.  They  were 
asleep  .  .  .  pink  and  white  .  .  .  gray,  pink  and 
white. 


PART  VI 

"Oh,  let  me  ride  on  all  the  seas, 

That  endless  peaceful  trip, 
With  God,  the  greatest  Skipper, 
And  Heaven,  the  perfect  ship." 

« — LOONBY  LUKE'S  POEMS 


CHAPTER  I 

RANK  on  rank  advancing  ...  to  where? 
.  .  .  Rollers  .  .  .  ominous  proceeding  ranks 
of  green  .  .  .  captained  by  screaming 
ghosts  mounted  on  the  wind,  charging,  charging, 
their  war  chant  hissing  to  the  dull,  thundering 
tread  of  their  distant  feet,  tramping  fathoms  below. 

So  the  North  Sea  ever  charges  on  its  phantom 
enemy,  its  countless  white  arms  rearing  hungrily 
up,  leaping  into  the  air,  searching  .  .  .  for  what? 

The  Lady  Spray,  agile  and  schooled,  tripped 
lightly  over  and  on,  shaking  her  graceful  body  as 
might  some  tall  white  hound  upon  Siberian  snows. 

But  there  was  a  shrug  of  irritability  in  her  move- 
ments. Like  a  circus  lady  who  hastens  her  dan- 
gerous act  to  rush  home  to  her  sick  baby,  her 
splendid  movements  are  marked  and  her  smile  is 
not  there. 

How  could  it  be?  Did  The  Spray  not  sense  the 
change  within  her?  She  sighed  continually.  She 
might  have  been  a  petted  race  horse  sold  to  alien 
hands,  as  she  gazed  out  upon  a  vista  of  change  and 
misery,  down,  down  upon  her  declining  years,  until 
her  faithful  timbers  should  yield  to  the  breaker's 
ax,  the  storm-hidden  rocks,  those  nightmares  of 
all  ships,  or  to  whatever  death  the  God  of  ships 
decreed. 

273 


274  FURY 

Poor  Spray!    Poor  Lady  Spray! 

Morning;  every  element  at  large;  sea,  wind  and 
sun ;  sun,  wind  and  sea.  A  morning  to  shout,  sing, 
scrub,  polish  and  tattle;  a  sailor's  morning;  a 
morning  for  the  chanty  man  who  was  not  there. 

No,  Claneey's  voice  was  missing. 

But  Red  was  humming  a  bit  up  forward  and  Zeis 
could  be  heard  in  the  galley.  But  whoever  under- 
stood the  words  he  sang? 

His  song,  or  whatever  it  was,  stopped  as  he 
handed  out  a  can  of  soup  and  some  biscuits  to 
Looney  Luke  who  waited  quietly  at  the  galley 
door. 

"Tatas  en  feech  en  bones — vary  goot  fer't 
stren'th." 

Luke  thought  it  smelt  so  and,  smiling,  walked 
forward. 

Lamey  sniffed  and  smiled  as  Luke  passed. 

"Better,  is  ?e?" 

Luke  paused.    "Improving." 

Lamey  stopped  to  jam  a  new  quid  into  his  cheek 
and  then  he  spat  properly. 

"I  'eard  'im  all  night.    Ravin',  wasn't  'e?" 

Luke  nodded.     "Poor  mind's  troubled,  Lamey." 

Lamey  turned  again  to  his  job.     "  'Ard  luck !" 

Luke  went  on  happily ;  happy  because  Lamey  was 
not  the  only  hand  by  many  that  had  asked  tenderly 
about  his  battered,  suffering  charge.  Yes,  the  crew 
were  for  Boy  to  a  man.  He  was  of  the  deep  sea, 
Boy  was — they  all  knew  that.  He  had  salt  and  h© 
could  go.  Blimey,  he  could  go  for  a  little'n! 


FURY  275 

And  this  dull  admiration  effected  a  reaction 
against  the  tall,  silent,  new  skipper.  Er — he  was 
a  superior  cuss,  he  was!  You  never  knew  what 
was  in  his  head  and  you  might  be  a  lump  of  gar- 
bage, the  way  he  talked  to  yer. 

Luke  glanced  up  through  the  swift  breeze  that 
smelt  so  good,  so  fresh. 

Somehow  he  felt  that  all  was  well.  Luke  was 
himself  again  this  morning.  For  forty-eight  hours 
since  leaving  Leith  he  had  been  strangely  enclosed 
in  a  stifling  doubt,  but  this  morning  everything 
whispered ;  the  sea,  the  wind,  the  world  whispered : 
"All's  well!  All's  well!  Only  you  .  .  .  only  men 
.  .  .  can  be  otherwise !  All's  well !  Men,  too,  may 
be  well  if  they  but  will  it  so!" 

Morgan's  voice  nearby  arrested  him.  He  paused 
by  Boat  Number  2  and  listened.  Mr.  Hop's  voice 
was  answering: 

"Latitude Longitude " 

Silence  for  a  moment,  and  then  Morgan's  voice 
again. 

"Right  over  the  old  'un!     Funny!" 

He  walked  out  just  in  front  of  Luke  and  spat 
over  the  side. 

"I  reckon  'e  misses  'is  swig  of  rum,  down  there." 
Then  he  apostrophized  the  dead  insultingly,  rib- 
aldly.  "Don't  yer,  Dog?  'Avin  a  few  fits  about  it, 
are  yer?" 

He  grinned  as  he  stood  looking  over. 

Mr.  Hop  passed  and  stood  beside  him. 

The  wind  swept  their  voices  away. 


276  FUEY 

So  they  were  over  Dog  Leyton's  grave!  They 
were! 

Luke,  too,  was  thinking  quickly  of  it,  as  he  hur- 
ried forward.  Yes,  they  were  over  the  old  'un's 
grave.  Strange,  Mechanically  he  made  his  way 
into  the  foVsle. 

Something  stretched  upon  Clancey's  bunk  turned 
as  he  entered  and  started  up  suddenly. 

"What— what  .  .  .  who  is  it?" 

"Just  me,  Boy,  with  some  soup.  Good,  too! 
Zeis  made  it  special  for  yer." 

"Ugh!     Don't  want  it!" 

"Do  try,  Boy.  Just  fer  Luke!  Come  on;  just 
a  drop.  'Ere  .  .  .  smell!" 

"Take  the  blinkin'  stuff  away,  will  yer?" 

"But,  Boy,  you  want  to  get  strong,  don't  you? 
Didn't  you  pray  last  night  with  me?  You  got  to 
do  something  on  your  own  for  it." 

"Ahr !  You  an'  yer  prayers  an'  yer  soup  an'  yer 
talk!  What  good  will  they  do  anybody?  Lemme 
alone !" 

The  sunlight  swept  suddenly  through  the  port 
across  Boy's  face — dark  blue,  white  and  red;  one 
eye  completely  closed  and  the  nose  swollen  gro- 
tesquely; a  purple  billow  of  flesh  hiding  the  line 
of  the  mouth. 

So  he  had  lain  hour  after  hour  in  that  rumbling, 
stinking  hole,  listening  to  the  incessant  wash — that 
damned,  awful,  taunting  wash. 

"You've  got  it  to  do  ...  you've  got  it  to  do 
.  .  .  you've  got  it  to  do!" 


FCJKY  277 

He  had  listened  until  he'd  screamed  and  tried 
to  struggle  up;  but  the  rib  and  the  loss  of  blood 
had  robbed  him  of  any  legs  to  speak  of. 

And  so  now  he  tossed  under  the  blanket  that  was 
clean  only  because  Looney  Luke  had  washed  it 
for  him,  all  day,  all  night,  all  night,  all  day; 
his  spirit  whipping  up  a  body  that  lay  tired 
and  panting,  unable  to  obey  that  damned,  awful, 
taunting  wash  that  sometimes  changed  to : 

"Get  up  and  kill  .  .  .  get  up  and  kill  .  .  .  get 
up  and  kill!" 

Then  he'd  press  the  blanket  over  his  ears,  but 
still  it  would  cut  through  relentlessly,  deep  into 
his  ear  drums — that  infernal,  terrible,  incessant 
wash!  "You've  got  it  to  do  ...  you've  got  it  to 
do!"  until  .  .  . 

Once  he  had  screamed  and  rushed  for  the  hatch 
to  jump  out  clear  and  end  it  all,  but  Luke  and  Bed 
had  caught  him,  weak  and  easy  to  lay  back  on  the 
bed. 

And  then  those  two  damn,  dirty  conspirators, 
Luke  and  Eed,  had  talked  low  and  shaken  their 
heads,  until  he'd  thrown  the  cup  at  Luke's  bald 
head  and  Luke  had  come  fearlessly  to  the  bunk 
and  knelt  and  gabbed  about  being  calm. 

Who  could  be  calm  while  that  damn,  awful, 
taunting  wash  kept  on  laughing  at  him:  "You've 
got  it  to  do!  ...  Get  up  and  kill!" 

So  hour  after  hour  he'd  groaned  and  tossed  and 
the  hands  had  come  and  peered  over  him,  shaking 
their  heads  gloatingly. 


278  FURY 

And  then,  once,  in  the  distance,  he'd  heard  Mor- 
gan's voice.  Morgan !  Christ  in  Heaven,  Morgan ! 
He'd  leaped  np,  but  then  had  fallen  and  shaken 
that  rib  until  he'd  seen  gray  and  blue  and  red  .  .  . 
and  his  Mother  and  Min  fighting,  tearing  at  each 
other's  hair  and  eyes  .  .  .  and  Min  had  got  his 
little  Mother  down  and  was  pouring  straight  gin 
out  of  a  bottle  into  her  blue  eyes,  just  so  that  she 
wouldn't  ever  see  him  again  .  .  .  and  then  both 
the  women  had  looked  up,  because  they  saw  Morgan 
coming  towards  them  .  .  .  and  he'd  just  looked 
and  grinned  and  turned  away;  and  they  both  had 
turned  and  followed  him  .  .  .  and  Min  was  throw- 
ing some  roses  that  she  wore  over  his  head — 

Boy  had  opened  his  eyes  to  see  Morgan's  back  at 
the  door.  He  had  shouted  and  Morgan  had  turned 
and  laughed.  And  then  Luke  had  come  and  whis- 
pered: 

"He  ain't  gonna  touch  yer,  Boy;  don't  get 
scared." 

Scared!    Him!    Boy!    Scared? 

Again  he'd  hit  Luke  with  his  hand  and  Luke  in 
answer  had  prayed  aloud  and  Boy  had  listened 
until  Luke  said: 

"Father,  give  him  strength!" 

And  Boy  had  cried  out: 

"Strength!    Strength!    Strength!" 

And  the  wash  had  laughed  at  his  voice. 

And  the  wash  was  right  because  no  strength  had 
come  all  night  or  even  now. 

And  here  was  Luke  and  smelly  soup;  and  the 


FURY  279 

sun  was  outside,  and  other  men  were  able  to  walk 
about;  and  the  wash  still  laughed  at  him,  and  he 
couldn't  get  up  ...  he  couldn't  get  up  ...  he 
couldn't  get  up  and  kill  and  rip  that  dirty  swine 
that  had  looked  over  him  and  laughed! 

Luke  sat  quietly,  watching  Boy's  twitching  face. 

"Where  do  you  think  we  are  now,  Boy?" 

A  groan  answered  him. 

"Where  are  we  now,  Boy?" 

"Hell !" 

"Is  your  father  in  Hell,  then,  Boy?" 

"Hell!" 

"Boy !"  Luke's  voice  rang  out.  "Oh,  take  heart, 
Boy  .  .  .  look!" 

What  was  Luke  shouting  about  now?  Boy 
looked  up.  Luke  continued,  with  a  splendid  ges- 
ture: 

"Out  of  that  there  port,  you  can  see  your  fa- 
ther's grave.  We're  over  him  now,  Boy." 

"Liar!" 

Luke  was  silent. 

But  Luke  never  lied.    Never. 

Boy  spoke:  "Straight?" 

Luke  nodded  his  head  slowly. 

Boy  was  silent. 

So  his  father  lay  below  ...  his  father! 

His  vision  cleared.    Below  .  .  .  him  now! 

"I  loved  yer  all  the  time,  Boy!" 

Oh,  God  in  heaven,  his  father  lay  below! 

Then  the  wash  spoke:  "He's  watching  below! 


280  FURY 

.  .  .  He's  watching  below!  .  .  .  He's  watching 
below !'' 

Luke  did  not  attempt  to  stop  the  twisted  figure 
that  staggered  to  the  door.  He  knew  that  some- 
thing bigger  than  either  of  them  willed  it  should 
be  so,  that  some  impulse  bigger  than  either  of 
them  led  Boy  forward. 

He  did  not  follow,  but  stood  mutely  waiting. 

If  Boy  jumped  over,  down  to  his  father,  then  God 
had  willed  it  so. 

A  light  shining  in  those  eyes  that  had  just  left 
had  ordered  him  and  all  men  .  .  .  not  to  interfere. 
Yet  Boy  had  said  no  word. 

He  had  passed  out  silently,  on  and  out. 

Mr.  Hop  touched  Captain  Morgan's  arm  and 
pointed  forward. 

Together  they  watched  the  figure,  naked  to  the 
waist,  clutch  at  the  house  for  support,  and  almost 
fall  towards  the  ship's  side,  the  side  that  was 
awash.  Morgan  smiled. 

"There  you  are.    Over  'e  goes." 

Mr.  Hop  shaded  his  eyes  to  watch.  Red  passed 
on  the  run;  Boy  was  jumping  over  for  sure! 

"Get  back  there." 

The  voice  of  his  Captain  halted  Red. 

"That  ain't  no  concern  of  yours!     Get  back!" 

Red  hesitated.  Lamey  and  Tucker  came  up  and 
stood  by  Red.  They  mumbled  quickly.  Mr.  Hop 
walked  forward  to  them. 

"Get  back!" 


FUKY  281 

Lamey  turned  away  still  mumbling.  Red  and 
Tucker  stood  still,  looking  off. 

"A  mate's  a  mate,  ain't  'e?" 

Morgan  had  walked  forward  to  where,  a  few  feet 
from  him,  Boy  gripped  the  rail.  He  was  shouting 
something. 

Mad!    Chains!  thought  Morgan. 

A  wave  broke  over,  and  Morgan  stepped  back, 
away  from  the  water  that  combed  over.  Luke 
appeared  at  the  companionway  hatch  and  was 
moving  quickly  out,  only  to  be  swung  savagely 
back  by  the  Captain. 

"Get  back!" 

Boy,  dripping,  flung  out  his  hands  and  the  wind 
swept  his  voice  back: 

"Father,  help  me!  Father!  I  ain't  failed  yer! 
father.  .  .  .  Gimmie  strength!  It's  Boy  a-callin' 
yer  .  .  .  father!  I'm  'urt  an'  I  ain't  got  no 
strength  .  .  .  but  I  found  'im,  father  ...  an'  I 
can't  ...  I  can't — " 

Another  wave  broke  and  tugged  his  bruised  body 
against  the  rail  as  it  rushed  away. 

Far  at  sea,  long  rollers,  line  on  line,  swept  on, 
interminable  proceeding  ranks  of  green. 

"Father  .  .  .  strength!" 

Morgan  laughed. 

Boy  turned,  stood  straight  up,  brine  dripping 
from  his  matted  hair,  brine  glistening  upon  two 
shoulders  that  squared. 

A  scream  above  the  wind. 

"Come  on,  Hell—" 


282  FUEY 

And  Morgan  swung  suddenly  around  as  a  list  of 
the  ship  synchronized  with  a  crashing  blow  upon 
his  ear. 

His  cap  fell  off  and  rolled  out. 

Mr.  Hop  ran  down  and  Bed  grabbed  his  arm. 

It  was  on  ...  it  was  on  ...  it  was  on  again! 

Tucker,  Zeis  and  Lamey,  even  Luke,  barred  the 
passage  to  that  small  arena,  bounded  upon  the 
other  side  by  a  rail  that  strained  as  two  bodies 
flung  against  it  in  a  fight  of  death. 

But  surely  the  death  of  only  one  .  .  .  the  little 
one  .  .  .  the  sick  one  .  .  .  because  Morgan  had  his 
adversary  by  the  throat  and  the  back  of  the  neck, 
and  with  awful  strength  was  tugging,  straining, 
drawing  that  clinging  frame  away  .  .  .  inch  by 
inch  .  .  .  step  by  step  .  .  .  gasp  by  gasp  towards 
the  garbage  chute  .  .  .  which  was  open. 

Then  Boy's  wet,  slippery  head  leaped  free,  and 
the  other  swung  violently  against  the  rail  at  the 
sudden  breaking  of  his  grip. 

Crash!  Every  atom  of  Boy's  fading  strength 
leaped  into  a  blow  that  swung  Morgan  square 
again  and  back  for  a  moment.  Then  those  large, 
long,  ruthless  arms  swung  out  .  .  . 

Mr.  Hop  struggled  and  blew  his  whistle.  A 
futile,  futile  squeak. 

Har  .  .  .  har-r-r-r-r  .  .  .  har! 

With  a  roaring  burst  the  sea  laughed  and  de- 
luged them  all. 

No  one  had  seen,  they  had  been  too  engrossed — 
no  one  had  seen  one  stern  and  solid  wave  rise  from 


FURY  283 

among  its  fellows,  roaring,  terrible  with  rage  .  .  . 
white  arms  reaching,  and  .  .  . 

But  now  they  saw  its  million  heels  tearing  past 
.  .  .  and  Boy  clinging  to  the  broken  rail. 

A  breathless  wait;  none  dared  move  forward. 
Then  the  water  cleared  away  and  Boy  moved  from 
the  rail  into  the  area  of  open  deck. 

Every  one  was  shouting,  pointing  to  something 
sweeping  out,  away  in  the  white  arms  of  the  waves. 

And  then  the  wave,  with  its  prey,  sank  into  the 
sea  and  left,  where  had  been  a  water-mountain,  an 
empty,  glistening,  satisfied,  water-valley. 

"A  boat!    Lay  to!" 

It  was  Mr.  Hop's  voice. 

Wind  .  .  .  sea  .  .  .  men !    The  world  laughed. 

Boy  alone  pointed  out  to  a  scrap  of  black,  like 
driftwood  that  had  appeared  again  .  .  .  but  sweep- 
ing back,  down  .  .  .  where? 

Boy's  voice:  "Father!" 

His  hands  went  up  in  a  mad  ecstasy;  he  was  a 
glorious  figure.  The  sun  of  triumph  was  upon  his 
face. 

Then  Mr.  Hop  released  and  rushed,  but  strong 
arms  seized  him  and  the  voice  of  a  sea  captain 
rang  out: 

"Arrest  him!" 

Of  course  they  obeyed.  Boy  Leyton  had  been 
first  mate,  so  he  was  Captain  now,  wasn't  he? 

"Aye,  aye!    Aye,  aye!" 

The  sea  answered.     "Aye,  aye!  .  .  .  Aye,  aye!" 

Then  Boy  stood  still  and  looked  up  to  the  smil- 


284  FURY 

ing  sky  where  lived  Luke's  God.  What  thought 
was  carried  on  that  smile,  what  said  that  smile 
.  .  .  who  knows  but  .  .  .  God?  Who  knows? 

And  Looney  Luke  who  stood  beside  him  cried  out 
in  a  loud  voice  that  every  one  could  hear: 

"Captain,  steer  your  course  ahead  .  .  .  your 
Father  spoke  .  .  .  there  are  no  dead!" 

Boy's  arm  swept  around  Luke's  shoulder;  their 
cheeks  almost  touched;  they  were  both  looking  up 
...  up  ... 

"Well  done!"  sang  the  wash  below.  "Well  done! 
Well  done!  Well  done!" 


CHAPTER  II 

"Now  life  what's  just  a  ferry, 

'Twixt  Mother's  arms  and  Christ, 
Is  painted  new  and  merry, 

'Cause  Min  and  Boy  got  spliced." 

ATD   that  was  only  one  of  the  things   that 
Looney  Luke  wrote  about  it. 

It  happened  on  a  Sunday,  the  Sunday 
after  the  Friday  that  Captain  Boy  Leyton  was 
discharged  from  the  hospital,  where  he'd  been  for 
an  operation  on  his  nose  which  would  always  have 
a  bit  of  a  twist  in  it  that  Min  thinks  is  an  improve- 
ment. And  that  rib  also  that  Mr.  Hop  had  set  all 
wrong,  and  which  Min  said  didn't  need  to  come 
out  because  Boy's  Eve  was  already  made — and  she 
was  it — had  been  fixed,  too. 

Yes,  it  was  the  Sunday  after  the  Saturday  that 
Boy — we'll  always  call  him  that,  even  if  he  gets 
to  be  a  blinking  Admiral,  which  isn't  likely,  be- 
cause The  Lady  Spray  will  live  us  all  out  by  the 
shape  of  her — well,  it  was  the  Sunday  after  the 
Saturday  that  Boy  went  to  the  office  where  he'd 
got  a  big  cigar,  a  slap  on  the  back  and  his  master's 
papers. 

The  Sunday  had  grown ;  by  a  series  of  excellent 
happenings  life  had  risen  to  a  crest  this  Sunday. 

The  early  hours  were  passed  by  Min  and  Mum- 

285 


286  FURY 

mie,  as  every  one  now  called  Boy's  little  gray 
mother,  in  their  diggings  in  Poole  Street,  in  get- 
ting dressed. 

On  board  The  Spray  Zeis  and  the  fat  woman 
cook  from  The  Jolly  Sailors  were  having  the  time 
of  their  lives  in  the  preparation  of  a  feast. 

Boy  was  busy  sprucing  up  and  spent  a  lot  of 
time  refusing  to  accept  from  Luke  the  loan  of  a 
top  hat  which  the  latter  had  dug  up  from  Lord 
knows  where.  A  lot  of  people  stood  round  on 
Noak's  Wharf,  because  the  two  taxis  and  the 
brake,  which  had  been  ordered  an  hour  too  early, 
attracted,  naturally,  a  great  deal  of  attention. 

Red  had  cut  himself  while  shaving  and  was  going 
to  vent  himself  on  little  Tucker,  when  Lamey  re- 
minded him  of  the  rule  posted  upon  the  hatch, 
which  said: 

"No  scrapping  to-day,  please." 

A  sensation  ...  a  happening  which  almost 
stopped  the  day  .  .  .  when  Mr.  Brisley's  cellar- 
man  rolled  down  a  whole  keg  of  real  old  Burton ; 
and  then  to  cap  that  off,  Mr.  Pet  wee  came  down, 
and,  after  calling  the  Captain,  who  called  the 
crew  out,  presented  him  with  a  gold  watch  on 
behalf  of  the  Company. 

Well,  before  this,  of  course,  down  had  come  Min 
and  Mummie  followed  by  a  thousand  kids  in  their 
Sunday  clothes.  It  must  have  been  Min's  hat  what 
done  it. 

It  was  large  enough  for  tea  Mins  and  a  couple 
of  ships  thrown  im. 


FURY  287 

But  never  mind.  The  taxis  were  wound  up,  the 
driver  that  wasn't  drunk  winding  up  the  one  be- 
longing to  the  other  one  that  was. 

Boy  and  Mummie  got  into  one,  which  was 
proper;  and  Min  got  into  the  other  with  Mr. 
Petwee  who  was  to  give  her  away. 

Red  said  it  was  about  the  only  time  he'd  ever 
given  anything  away. 

Mr.  Brisley,  then,  climbed  into  the  taxi  with 
Boy  and  Mummie,  because  Luke  told  him  to,  as 
he  was  best  man.  Don't  forget  that  that  post  had 
been  offered  to  each  and  every  one  of  the  crew, 
but  all  thought  that  Mr.  Brisley  was  better  dressed 
for  it,  and,  then  again,  didn't  he  know  what  to  do? 

Lamey  had  his  cornet  all  shined  up  with  Globe 
Polish,  and  got  up  in  front  on  the  brake,  and  the 
rest  of  the  crew  got  in  behind. 

Zeis  wasn't  dressed  properly,  but  it  didn't  mat- 
ter, because  he  had  to  go  to  work  right  away,  after, 
back  in  the  galley,  and  the  fat  woman  cook  had 
only  consented  to  mind  things  at  the  last  minute. 

As  everything  moved  off  from  moorings,  Lamey 
started  the  Wedding  March  on  his  cornet,  too  high. 
He'd  practiced  it  enough,  but  musicians  are  nerv- 
ous, and  Red  was  eating  an  orange,  on  purpose,  to 
be  funny. 

Then  the  horses  didn't  cotton  to  the  sound — 
and  who  wants  a  blinking  wreck  on  your  Captain's 
wedding  day? 

So  off  they  sailed. 

Luke  said  he'd  walk  up.    Queer  fish,  Luke! 


288  FURY 

People  waved  up  Poole  Street  and  Min  got  her 
hat  caught  when  she  put  her  head  out  of  the  taxi 
too  far  to  shout  at  some  one. 

The  crew  sang  "Roses  of  Pickaney,"  and  then 
gave  "I  Must  Go  Home  To-night,"  the  verse  of 
which,  sung  as  a  solo  by  Tucker,  referred  to  a  mar- 
riage; so  you  see  the  chorus  fitted,  as  Luke  would 
say,  aptly. 

The  sack  of  rice  which  Zeis  had  nearly  forgotten 
and  had  swung  on  the  back  at  the  last  minute, 
burst  open  as  they  turned  into  the  East  India  Dock 
Road,  so  somebody  got  a  free  rice  pudding.  A  bit 
dirty,  but  what  ho! 

At  the  church  this  was  the  first  of  three  wed- 
dings scheduled  for  that  time,  and  Min  easily  out- 
shone any  of  the  other  brides,  one  of  whom  had 
red  hair,  even  if  Min  did  say  it  herself. 

Red  fell  down  getting  into  a  pew  and  dragged 
little  Tucker  down  with  him,  and  then  broke  the 
prayer-book  stand  with  his  weight,  heaving  himself 
up.  Tucker  hid  it  under  the  seat  and  as  every  one 
was  busy  singing,  not  many  noticed.  No  charge 
was  made,  though  for  a  moment  Red  had  feared 
there  might  be. 

Somebody  who  had  had  a  couple  of  eye-openers 
pinched  Lamey's  cornet  from  the  pew  behind  him 
and  blew  a  loud  note,  which  naturally  made  every 
one  look  around,  and  the  bloke  that  pinched  it  and 
blew  it  got  nervous  and  dropped  it  on  the  floor  of 
the  aisle  and  broke  the  nozzle  off. 

Lamey  told  him  to  wait  for  him  outside  and  the 


FURY  289 

bloke  offered  to  have  it  out  then  and  there.  Lamey 
wanted  this,  but  Red  wouldn't  let  him  do  it,  and 
then  the  singing  stopped  and  every  one  sat 
down. 

Boy  and  Min  both  trembled  and  Min  said,  "I 
will"  for  both  of  them,  which  got  a  round  of  ap- 
plause and  a  laugh  from  the  crew,  who  had  craned 
their  necks  to  hear  their  Captain  pronounce  the 
awful  words  and  had  waited  for  the  words  Boy 
could  not  speak  because  he  was  so  nervous. 

The  Kev.  W.  F.  P.  Vane  soon  restored  order  by 
holding  up  his  hand  and  saying:  "Men!  Men!" 
Tucker  thought  he  said  "Amen"  and  repeated  it, 
which  got  another  laugh. 

Suddenly,  just  as  the  ring  was  slipping  on  Min's 
finger,  and  Min  had  started  to  cry  exactly  at  the 
spot  that  she  had  arranged  in  her  mind  that  she 
would,  every  one  started  turning  around. 

Some  one  had  come  in  aft. 

Ma  Brent,  all  dressed  up,  with  Clancey  carrying 
his  head  done  up  in  a  bandage. 

Red  shouted,  "Ei,  ei,  Clan!" 

And  some  women,  not  of  The  Spray  gang,  said, 
"Sh!  Sh!" 

Clan  and  Ma  Brent!  Blimey!  What  a  day! 
What  ho ! 

When  the  Rev.  W.  F.  P.  Vane  started  his  few 
words  of  address  Lamey  borrowed  a  knife  and 
started  to  mend  his  cornet  for  the  journey  back 
and  was  just  giving  it  a  little  test  with  his  necker- 
chief stuck  in  the  bell  of  it,  when  the  parson  got 


290  FURY 

offended  and  smiled  and  told  everybody  to  go  off 
and  have  a  good  time.  He  was  only  saying  things 
about  Min  what  everybody  knew,  anyway. 

The  organ  started  to  play  lively  and  Lamey  came 
right  out  and  played  the  wedding  march  upon  his 
cornet  along  with  it. 

When  they  were  marching  down  the  aisle  Min 
came  face  to  face  with  Ma  Brent,  and  she  felt  so 
good  that  she  grinned,  and  of  all  the  miracles,  Ma, 
who  had  her  best  clothes  on,  smiled  back,  which 
got  Min  so  flustered  that  she  stopped  the  proces- 
sion and,  starting  to  cry  again,  said: 

"Come  down  to  The  Spray,  Ma,  for  a  bite." 

Ma  nodded,  and  Clan  leaned  over  and  slapped 
Boy  upon  the  back,  and  grinned  one  of  those  old 
Clancey  grins. 

Boy  jerked  his  head  as  much,  as  to  say,  "Come 
down,"  as  they  were  on  the  march,  and  Boy  had 
lost  his  voice  again,  anyway ;  and  Clancey  shouted : 

"I'll  be  there  with  bells  on." 

Every  one  was  glad  to  see  Clan,  and  some  of  the 
language  in  their  greeting  got  them  all  put  out  of 
the  church  by  a  bloke  dressed  in  a  woman's  black 
skirt  and  carrying  a  pole. 

Luke  was  waiting  outside.  He  never  went  in 
churches.  He  said  that  his  church  was  inside  of 
him!  What  he  meant  by  that  nobody  knew;  but 
Luke  was  crazy  anyway. 

He  was  wearing  the  top  hat,  which  was  dirty 
where  some  kid  had  thrown  something  and  knocked 
it  off;  but  Luke  was  radiantly  happy  and  fought 


FURY  291 

with  the  rest  aronnd  the  new  rice  bag,  where  a  lot 
of  kids  were  pinching  the  rice. 

And  every  one  was  careful  with  the  rice  in  the 
Captain's  face,  because  he  was  still  a  bit  tender; 
and  Mummie  stopped  crying  and  laughed ;  and  Red 
kissed  her  and  got  a  round  for  it,  when  he  lifted 
her  up  into  the  brake  where  the  lads  had  plotted 
she  should  ride  back. 

Lamey's  cornet  started  up,  "Sweet  Adeline,"  by 
request  from  Min,  and  Mummie  tore  her  lavender 
skirt  while  sitting  down. 

In  the  first  cab  Boy  and  Min  sat  silently,  holding 
each  other's  hands  with  their  fingers  through  each 
other's. 

The  driver  of  the  brake,  who  wore  a  gray 
bowler,  got  into  an  argument  with  Yuka,  the  Rus- 
sian, accusing  him  of  throwing  the  rest  of  the  rice 
down  his  neck.  He  was  wrong.  Yuka  hadn't 
thrown  anything  since  .  .  . 

Well,  Tucker  took  the  driver's  attention  away  off 
of  that,  because  he  borrowed  his  whip  to  hit  some 
kids  who  were  in  danger  of  their  lives  hanging  on 
the  back,  and  broke  it.  And  so  the  crew  clubbed 
round  to  buy  a  new  one. 

The  driver'd  got  to  have  a  blooming  mast,  hadn't 
he,  to  get  back  to  the  ship  with?  Red  observed. 

Back  on  the  ship,  the  "Beano"  (which  is  London 
East  End  for  a  good  time)  started  for  fair. 

Dinner  on  deck,  a  la  Lord  Loveaduck  on  his 
yacht,  as  Clancey  remarked;  and  then  every  one 
noticed  that  Clancey  was  holding  off  the  booze. 


292  FURY 

He'd  gone  teetotal!  Well,  the  world  was 
changed. 

Min  had  been  saving  room  for  the  dinner,  so  she 
ate  like  a  bride  should  eat,  and  the  Captain,  or 
rather  Boy,  didn't  eat  because  he  was  watching 
Min  and  had  an  arm  around  Mummie. 

Roast  beef,  Yorkshire  pudding,  beans,  taters  and 
a  last  year's  Christmas  pudding  from  Mrs.  Brisley. 
Cheese,  and  beer  and  whiskey  for  those  who  fan- 
cied it. 

What  about  that  for  a  menu? 

Zeis  and  Yuka  waited,  and  they  were  the  only 
two  waiters  that  didn't  ever  quarrel  while  the 
dinner  was  on. 

Ma  Brent  steamed  up  over  the  gang-plank  when 
dinner  was  nearly  over,  and  Min  got  up  from  her 
pudding,  which  was  just  alight  because  some  one 
had  put  some  brandy  on  and  touched  a  match  to  it. 

'^Welcome,  Mrs.  Brent,"  said  Minnie,  very  lady- 
like. 

"Not  at  all,  I'm  sure,  Mrs.  Leyton,"  said  Mrs. 
Brent. 

And  then  she  went  and  sat  beside  Clancey,  who 
told  every  one  down  his  end  how  prompt  Ma  Brent 
could  be  when  he'd  wired  her  for  money  from  the 
hospital  in  Leith. 

It  was  all  one  surprise  after  another,  because 
when  Mr.  Hop,  who'd  never  been  really  sacked  or 
invited,  sauntered  up  and  on  forward  to  his  quar- 
ters, the  Captain  rose  and  went  after  him  and 
walked  some  way  with  him. 


FURY  293 

No  one  heard  what  Boy  said,  but  Mr.  Hop  came 
back  with  Boy,  who  himself  filled  up  a  tankard 
and  handed  it  to  the  first  mate. 

Then  some  one  shouted  "Speech!"  and  Mr.  Hop 
raised  his  tankard  seriously  and  said  "Skol!" 

There  was  clapping  for  some  moments,  and  then 
he  cleared  his  throat.  Mr.  Hop  was  always  serious. 
H^  was  very  serious  now. 

"I  love  The  Spray,  and  'erete  to  'er,  and  those 
good  men  what  man  'er." 

He  saluted  the  Captain  and  his  Lady,  and  Min 
waved  her  spoon  and  said,  "'Ear!  'Ear!" 

Mr.  Hop  then  sat  by  Mummie,  whose  glass  was 
dry. 

Clancey  started  an  argument  about  drink  with 
Bed,  who  had  had  a  couple,  and  that  started  the 
speeches,  and  good  ones,  too.  Luke's,  anyway,  was 
good !  all  agreed  to  that.  It  was : 

"Here's  to  the  wondrous  women 
What's  dreamed  of  by  our  crew.  , 

May  their  dreams  be 

Of  men  and  sea, 
And  may  their  dreams  come  true!" 

Good  old  Luke!  Nice  old  boy!  He  looked  so 
happy;  and  every  now  and  again  a  tear  would 
drop,  but  not  because  Marian  had  gone  off  and  got 
married;  all  Luke's  girls  did  that;  he  told  them 
to.  He  only  had  them  so  that  he  would  have  some- 
body to  bring  something  to,  like  the  others  had. 

Poor  Luke's  hat  was  done  in  by  Clancey  doing 


294  FURY 

a  trick  with  a  glass  of  beer  that  had  been  poured 
out  for  him  and  that  he  didn't  want. 

And  then,  when  every  one  was  full  up,  the  crew 
gave  the  Captain  his  present. 

Red  had  been  selected  to  present  it,  but  the  boys 
whispered  and  gave  the  honor  to  Mr.  Hop  at  the 
last  minute,  and  he  received  the  present  when  it 
was  passed  under  the  table  to  him. 

He  hadn't  chipped  in  anything  for  it,  and  he 
remembered  that;  so  he  did  a  nice  thing.  He 
pulled  off  that  silver  ring  that  he'd  worn  since 
the  flood  and  slipped  it  into  the  wedding 
present,  which  was  a  shining  silver  Dish  Cover 
with: 

TO  CAPTAIN  AND  MRS.  BOY  LEYTON, 

FROM  THE  LADS  OF 

THE  LADY  SPRAY 

i — and  then  the  date. 

Mr.  Hop  said  nothing,  and  Min  made  a  nice 
little  speech  of  thanks. 

"Thank  yer,  boys.  I'll  be  sailin'  with  yer  now, 
all  the  time,  see?  And  yer  got  a  reg'lar  shipmate 
in  me,  I  'ope.  I  can  darn  a  bit,  and  ye  can  all  call 
me  Ma." 

Laughter  and  cheers. 

Every  one  talked  and  then  Clancey  sang  "Stop 
Your  Tickling  Jock,"  and  "Mother  Machree"  for 
an  encore,  which  went  down  very  well. 

Lamey  gave  a  cornet  solo  and  there  was  a  short 
dance,  very  short — what  ho! 


FURY  295 

Bed  fell  over  with  Mrs.  Brisley  and  Mr.  Brisley, 
who  was  a  good  sort,  didn't  mind  a  bit. 

"She'd  plenty  o'  fat  ter  fall  on,"  he  said. 

Then  the  guests  departed  and  the  lads  went 
down  to  finish  up  the  Beano  at  The  Jolly  Sailors. 

The  Jolly  Sailors  was  well  named  that  night,  all 
right.  What  ho ! 

An  autumn  Sunday  evening.  Tall  ships  swayed 
restfully  at  docks  and  down  from  Lambeth  came 
the  sound  of  evening  bells. 

Noak's  Wharf  was  silent,  as  if  awed.  Gulls 
arched  gracefully  down  and  up.  The  Lady  Spray 
breathed  in  even  contentment,  the  masts  of  her 
sweetheart  ship,  The  Lion,  in  the  next  berth,  cut- 
ting sharp  shadows  acrosa  her  deck ;  his  arm  might 
have  been  about  her. 

Luke  leaned  back,  writing,  and  Mummie  in  her 
new  deck-chair  sat  knitting.  Luke's  tie  fluttered. 

"A  pretty  tie,"  said  Mummie.     "Unusual  like." 

It  was  the  Eton  boating  tie;  but  Luke  did  not 
tell  her  so.  He  just  smiled  and  spoke  softly: 

"Everything  is  beautiful,  Mummie." 

"Lately  it  has  been,"  said  Mummie. 

"Love,"  said  Luke  softly. 

"Love,"  repeated  Mummie.    "It  is  beautiful !" 

"It  is  God!"  said  Luke. 

And  Mummie  sighed,  believing. 

THE  END 


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